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By the third occasion-she couldn’t exactly call them “dates”-Mira thought she had him figured out. Before that she had not been able to determine whether he was a crazy person acting sane or a sane person acting crazy. She had met him through the personals. His ad had described him as “energetic” and “ambitious,” and…
I rejoice in the poems not written: the cruelly discarded: the crippled, the asthmatic, the anemic: the poem about a photograph: about what love is like: about how strangely I felt that day: about something about me, noticed. Bless you, go on the ash-heap, that fine compost from muscle, blood, bone, which fuels surely the…
Rita Dove, On the Bus with Rosa Parks, poems: In her seventh collection, Dove mines American mythologies and histories to brilliant effect, arriving at relevant and artful poems that stir and sing. (Norton)
I am a good confidante, and I’ll tell you the secret: never offer advice, merely listen. You may repeat, ratify, sympathize, query, even divulge a tidbit or two, whip up the objective correlative, but you must never give an opinion about what your friend should do next. Never, never, never. The summer of my separation…
The lovely lady posted in red No Hunting. Last night the supreme hunter crossed the meadow, into the house, to the target.
George Garrett, Oedipus at Colonus, play: Garrett’s scintillating translation is included in Sophocles, 2, edited by David R. Slavitt and Palmer Bovie, which rounds out the Penn Greek Drama Series, the first complete translations of Sophocles in fifty years. (Pennsylvania)
Why was it, Janice thought, that everything took longer than you wanted? Like life. It was the last day of summer, their last day together, and all the way upstate her mother went on about Cornell-the boys she dated, the friends she made-going “oh,” and “oh!” over the radio until Janice’s head went completely blank,…
A few things straight up: I’m mounting my stag, later I’ll slash his throat, drain his blood; I’ll gut him and he’ll sate me, but for now he’s my prop. My foot pressed firmly upon his bloody breast, his hoof in my hand, I speak. My granddaddy was a Baptist minister, my daddy a newspaperman….
Philip Levine, The Mercy, poems: Levine’s eighteenth volume is at turns touching and heartbreaking, enchanting and brutal, but always compelling. This is a book of essential journeys, from birth to death, from innocence to experience, from youth to age, from here to there. (Knopf)
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