for Joe and U. T. Summers Not of the wealthy, Coral Gables class Of traveler, nor that rarified tax bracket, These birds weathered the brutal, wind-chill facts Under our eaves, nesting in withered grass, Wormless but hopeful, and now their voice enacts Forsythian spring with primavernal racket. Their color is the elderly, moleskin gray Of…
The story my father tells me is like the music one wants to make himself, or hears inside himself and nowhere else, elusive, as anything which is always present. He is here, seated on a rattan chair over which he has spread a sheet so that the rough, woven reeds won't snag his suit, a…
I got over to the side of the road as far as I could, into the grass and the weeds, but my father steered the car over that way, too. Through the windshield I could see his work hat, the shadow of his face and shoulders, the specks of light that were his glasses. I…
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…
No products in the cart.