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poetry

A new collection by Appleton poet Melissa Range draws from medieval religious manuscripts, Old English literature, and “hillbilly” stories from East Tennessee.

The election happened and now you’re driving north.November freezes in the birch trees. The fieldshave nothing left. In Wisconsin where you pass themthe hills go rolling autumn through the cold.

Exhausted, this light.It was supposed to shinepiercingly brightset the roof ablazemelt the fire escapespark mica in the wallsinge a rat’s whiskersin its hole.But side-swiped by a taxi door

Life may not be as bleak as it seems.

The hurried seasons—spring, summerand fall—may plow into winter’s caboose, send it vamoosing.

Thomas J. Erickson’s first full-length poetry collection, The Biology of Consciousness, stopped me dead in my tracks, even before I cracked the cover. What on earth could the book or its title poem mean?

My measure of a poem’s quality is often found in the question, “How did the poet think of that?” If that poem should happen to begin an entire collection that has me asking that same question again and again, well, then I know I have something rea

When poets and visual artists work together, they negotiate a shared language.

Asking peopleWhat happens to them          after they dieIs like asking babies in the wombWhat happens to them          After they’re born—How can they answerWhen they don’t even know

the laser brush we watchedburn soot off the gownof an ancient kore

the Delphic light, siftedthrough the nets of the godsto fall on us

An Eau Claire poet's wry take on life, death, and love.

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