Reprinted from Issue 3 of Ploughshares, Winter 1972. (guest edited by James Randall) Richard Yates was born in Yonkers, New York, in 1926. He graduated from the Avon School in 1944, served in the last years of World War II, and until 1952 worked at a variety of jobs, ranging from newspaper rewrite man to…
The tribute was held downtown, far away from the theater district. Christine crossed the street gingerly, on four-inch heels thin as pencils—Ivan had always loved women in high heels—and checked the address against the invitation in her purse. The building was new and modern, the front window lettered with Cyrillic characters and a boldface translation:…
Reprinted from Issue 18 of Ploughshares, Fall 1979.? (guest-edited by James Randall) Seamus Heaney has been at Harvard University teaching two writing courses during the Spring semester. The interview took place in Cambridge, Massachusetts at Michael Mazur’s studio with James Randall and Seamus Heaney seated on a couch, tape recorder between them, and Michael Mazur…
A map unfolds into a world where new poems, new ways of writing them, a new way of living, become possible. My turning points have included the discovery of the city of Istanbul, where I spend a few weeks every year, and my eventual immigration to Ireland, where I now live. With an accent instantly…
Looking Sometimes we still see it. Even now. Nights like this, sprawled on the deck of the mothership—stars rioting overhead, waves spanking the hull below—we close our eyes and there it looms, our Infinity, floating serenely across the insides of our lids like some pale winged creature borne of desire, luck, and dreams. Also a…
push up the wick, when the dark comes early. That’s marrow dark. Waiting-for-the-savior dark. Keep spare lamps for when cocoons turn mute: their prophecy spilled scale & tattered wing. For when no wasp will overwinter & no beetle. When that iridescence litters fields lace tight your goods. Somewhere in the barn a cache: broken bottle,…
“If it is true that there is an origin of language and if it is true that the origin of language is other to the uttered experience of language, then the origin is irreparably lost and unreachable.” —Paolo Bartoloni I. It was snowing that day. A scree of snow fell against a sky so white…
"Something’s happened," my father says. There’s been a construction accident. A demolition gone wrong on a lot cattycorner to his apartment in Brooklyn. The crew dug too deeply into the dirt cavity where a house once stood, and into the bordering foundations. The house next door has collapsed. There may have been three people inside….
Now Mike Fuselier would sometimes watch Paul Calder in Moonie’s, chasing Wild Turkey with Pabst, and once Mike had seen him snoring out in the sun at Royce-Anne Park, under the wwii memorial. Often he saw Calder simply wandering the streets of West Medora with a confused, absent expression, as if she was something he’d…
Spring 2016 - Digital