poetry
So tell your story, each version more distantand yet … still fresh, never finished.
No matter whether death was suddenor a gradual decline,
You need to remind the mind over and over againto come back to quiet,
to the dark hollows of where words and no wordsare found, like hunting morels in a forest.
As my mother tells it,when the Great Warcame my Great-GrandmotherGuarneschella lied. Datesare relative. Domenicowouldn’t be 16. Wouldn’t beconscripted. Didn’t matter.
In this Academy Evening talk, Bruce Dethlefsen discusses his evolution as a poet and shares his wisdom for emerging writers.
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
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