Waterfield is a direct descendant of postmodernist Denise Levertov.
My poems want to rescue you but are often only able to watch.
It was late in the smoke-painted bar, a quarter past the blue hour.
I wanted to create a space where I could be honest without feeling required to adhere to some arbitrary notion of what was True.
I’ve always been crazy about animals, so I do remember liking the story of Mary and the lamb that followed her to school, when I was little.
Of Lamb is the rare, special kind of book that is so beautiful one can’t help but keep it wrapped in tissue paper when they’re carrying around, as they might a shiny stone kept for luck.
The setting, Yahia reminds me more than once, is a little absurd.
“Some say the world will end in fire, / Some say in ice” famously wrote Robert Frost. “I whispered precipice” Dennigan answers, “[…] because precipice contains ice (practically twice).”
“I think we want to innovate.”
In place of a hermeneutics of reading, as Susan Sontag’s ghost might say, we need an erotics of reading.
The seven sections of Colin Winnette’s slim new novel Revelation correspond to the seven angels of the Book of Revelation.
This is a kind of Stockholm Syndrome, of course (as all existentialism is), but it’s a defiant, expansive strain that’s nobody’s fool or prisoner.
A review of Fast Animal by Tim Seibles
Any review of literature in translation is also a review of the translation. And in this act, the review is also, in part, a comment on the endeavor of translation itself.
Portland just feels different.
The echoes of her pain are still reverberating, like a mechanical baby doll, crying forever: a baby, our baby, who can never be soothed.
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