I don’t usually have an idea in mind when I begin to write.
Grammar can be a brutal, brutal thing.
Sarah Schweig, neighbor to airfields, estrangement, mythology, imagination, opens up about how she came to be a poet of departures. Pardon my inability to pronounce Catullus.
Nobody else contemporary or comparable to the young Rachel B. Glaser writes as epiphanic structures as these or plays with the purpose and effect of fiction with such verve
[He’s like those children who take apart a clock in order to find out what time is]
An idea for a poem is always a competing poem.
Simone Kearney paints the poet Larry Fagin. Also read a poem by Fagin.
Ephemeral, almost spirit-like, this book can be read in under 15 minutes if one rushes or pondered for days and cannot be fully appreciated on a Kindle or as a pdf.
He’s just a west-coast boy, living in New York City, he took the express train to where good poems reside.
Mary Karr and Christopher Robinson discuss Thomas Lux’s poem “Tarantulas on the Lifebuoy.”
[Symptoms of Island]
I must describe the physical sensation this poem had on me. It was a hot and humid day, and the house was full of fans whirring, and flies buzzing, and no one was home.
It occurred to me that if a poet or writer is to develop discipline, he or she must have some sense of assignment.
Sestets is what it seems to be and a lot more: a small book of small poems that resurrect what they can from the nothingness.
Dawn Marie Knopf’s poetry feeds off a particularly American mythos: old wives’ tales, Farmer’s Almanacs, the revered stories of American pop heroes before they made it big.
Add Clark Coolidge to the list of great American poets that nobody is talking about.
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