Wednesday 30 September 2020

Erik Kennedy

NINETEENTH-CENTURY RURAL ROAD-BUILDERS   They built roads we still use to move people we now judge and things we’ve replaced with...
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Friday Pick: Elizabeth Knapp’s “Requiem with an Amulet in Its Beak”

An at-times crushing, always beautiful chronicle of sorrow and its afterlife, Requiem with an Amulet in Its Beak will haunt you long after you’ve turned its final page.

Erik Kennedy

I was having an affair with my partner’s therapist, and she was having an affair with mine.

Love in a Time of Terror: An Interview with David Biespiel

In our latest interview, we talk to David Biespiel about his latest volume of poetry, Republic Café, a long poem that explores the radical intimacy of public trauma and what it means to inhabit the reality of the body politic within one's own skin.

Michelle Penn

You tell yourself you’re immune, always, but then D appears, if not exactly out of the shadows then like a river of milk flooding the kitchen.

Chris Green

How hard the mountain tries to become the wind. How hard the wind tries to become a flame. How hard the flame tries to become a mountain. And the mountain, how it pretends not to notice the moon’s secret moves, what a torn moon rising from its mirror.

Justin Lacour

I’m not saying we both wake to a darkness and go to bed each night knowing we’ll wake to the same darkness the next day. I’m not saying that.

M. Drew Williams

She stands beside the ashes of the woman she was only minutes ago. She bows slightly and thanks everyone for their time.

Lacie Semenovich

Take the bully’s words, the bruises, the broken hearts, the lost fortunes, the lost babies, the grandmothers’ last breaths, the guilt and shame of being touched in the wrong places, the burned houses, the ripped dresses, take it all and set it to the sewer to be treated, to be purified and set free.

Donna Stonecipher’s PROSE POETRY AND THE CITY | Review

Prose Poetry and the City, Donna Stonecipher's probing, flâneur-like meander through the history and poetics of the prose poem, is written not unlike the prose poem itself—an open space of relations that view modernity and its poetics not as a matrix, a network, or a panopticon, but rather as a series of moving tensions.

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