for Allen Tate Through a loose camouflage Of maples bowing gravely to everyone In the neighborhood, and the soft, remote barrage Of waterfalls or whispers, a stippled sun Staggers about our garden, high On the clear morning wines of mid-July. Caught on a lifting tide Above a spill of doubloons…
The poems of Joyce Peseroff are a great pleasure to read. Many of them (though I will not try to illustrate this here) are very funny; and many of them enter the mind with a persistent force that is startling. "Startling" seems right because Peseroff's way of writing does not involve the loud noises or…
MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editors for This Issue Tim O'Brien DeWitt Henry CONTRIBUTORS RICHARD BAUSCH is working on a novel, Coldest Season, and teaches at Northern Virginia Community College. PHILIP DAMON has had stories in Antaeus, Iowa Review, Transatlantic Review, Hawaii Review, Best American Short Stories and elsewhere. He teaches at the…
A long time ago I watched Margaret Mead's film, Four Families, with a bunch of high school kids. While I sat there, wholly mesmerized by the dark flow of those domestic images with their latent and compelling content, the kids' responses had been quite different. "Is that all there is?" one prescient fourteen-year-old demanded: "Eating,…
"Where there is room for error," Charles Martin writes, meditating on the past which has been forged by the articulation of the bones of dinosaurs at the Brooklyn Museum, "there is room for us." It is very much the theme of these poems and the ruined, ruinous, funny and terrifying world they conjure. Martin was…
The afternoon air is so still and heavy with heat everyone in the house has gone off to nap. I let the tap water run a while over my finger tips waiting for the cold stuff to come from the spring. Bulkhead clouds appear in the kitchen window, comically grand. Time settles over the edges…
1. Ulcerated tooth keeps me awake, there is such pain, would have to go to the hospital to have it pulled or would bleed to death from the blood thinners, but can’t leave Mother, she falls and forgets her salve and her tranquilizers, her ankles swell so and her bowels are so bad, she almost…
Robert B. Shaw's Comforting the Wilderness (Wesleyan, 1977) deserves attention not only because it is a very good first collection of poems, but also because it raises the question of where American poetry is going at the moment. It exemplifies, I think, a gradual revival of interest in the well-made poem. Since Robert Lowell and…
When I was a boy we always did it this way. I wake to the smell of coffee and you are at the fire, its flames mirrored in your glasses. Buck, the Colonel’s dog, sleeps on beneath the bunk house his old legs quivering with problems of their own. The raw south Texas dawn is…
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