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News of the World certainly offers some typical-feeling moves to those familiar with Levine’s oeuvres, it also contains formal variations and preoccupations that will amuse and surprise both his admirers and those who don’t yet know his work.

Ben Pease interviews Deborah Landau on the Scattered Rhymes Podcast.

Ashbery causes me to pause and reflect with awed humility that I could never do what he did in this poem.

[Photo]

James Schuyler is back from the dead with the lovely “Other Flowers” a posthumous book of his unpublished, uncollected poems.

She scares me the way Cordelia scares me--by dint of her absolute integrity.

If you are a poet writing in English, you carry Horace in your own voice.

Ben Pease interviews Ben Mirov on the Scattered Rhymes Podcast.

Mary Karr and Christopher Robinson discuss Weldon Kees's poem "1926."

What Inspires Us To Write Poetry?

[Packing Her Things]

Nine Worthies is something of a Tower of Babel: multifarious in diction, opulent in detail, complex in meaning and, finally it seems, reaching toward the heavens.

To what extent do the classics belong to our actual, lived experience?

NOTE: This is the third in a series of posts by Colie Hoffman about her experience while a writer-in-residence at Sangam House, India. When I was in grad school, my friend Dave and I used to lift weights at the gym. The undergrad demographics at our university skewed largely male, so naturally, the weight room was populated almost exclusively by beefy, college-age boys. I was usually the only woman there, and Dave, a compact, physically efficient-looking sort of guy no taller than 5’7,” was the only man his size. Technically, we went together so we could help each other work out—but really, we went together for mutual protection. Alone, we’d get stared at. Together, neither of us had to be the only one getting stared at. Or, maybe it felt safer to [...]

Morgan Parker describes herself as equipped with the eyes of a surrealist, ears of an ethnographer, tongue of a cynical comedian, and heart of a brooding sixteen-year old.

My first memory of my father is: "Hurled headlong flaming!"