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The artist suffers to create art. The woman suffers in a world that hates women. The woman artist, then, if she wants to create, suffers a unique violence: a brutalization of the female form that renders the “feminine” the result of sustained violence both figurative and literal. So we see blood-streaked clouds and arteries spewing flour—we find the speaker with scars in her throat from blowing divine light.

Photo credit: Cade Leebron As autumn deepens, poet and essayist Kathryn Rhett meditates on the magnetic forces of inner weather. In Bed I can’t stop talking about the weather. You say not to, and I can’t stop. Did they say it would rain? The white light pours down—I don’t think it will rain, but did they say? I don’t know. It’s eight o’clock in the morning— one child has a fever and another is in a play about death and nobody’s slept. He’s performing all the parts about death, death itself and the one who doesn’t want to die. The rain and the one who waits for what they say— they didn’t call for snow sometimes they’re wrong it’s no wonder with all this change in weather he has a [...]

Nature doesn't simply reflect the moral upheaval associated with brutality and human atrocity: it participates. [. . .] We are . . . [i]nvested in nature only insofar as we are invested in human nature, and what it might give way to.

The past tracks your scent. At your heels
like king’s hounds and hungrier.

This is what comes after massacre.

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Of the Divining and the Dead possesses such delicate thematic coherency of seeking, altering, yet returning to what is most deeply cherished. The journeys in our mind, as facilitated by Razvi’s words, are fantastic -- the colors explode on the page. You see the poems unveil like a fairy tale. The domestic mixes with the untamed, connotes ideas of Darwinism, evolving into a new chapter of believing and becoming.

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Our work intentionally destabilizes genre, both in terms of content and media, an intention born out of personal identity as a queer feminists. We are interested in subtle ways to defy comfortable expectations. Our subject matter is also liminal, often featuring characters of uncertain biological identity (blurring the lines between genders and between humans, animals, and machines), or objects caught between two states of being. We create work that is simultaneously repulsive and beautiful, and I use this uncomfortable dichotomy to pull my audience in to the polyphonic narratives embedded in my work.

The Lost Ark Between their wings, space only for God. The air, charged. Within, only dust. What shall we put in the ark? Nothing, but the tablets. The gold flaked away, baring acacia. The poles broken. We cannot carry it any further. What shall we put in the ark? Nothing, but the testimony. The sand, cemented. The faces, muted with time. Silent. Eyes closed. What shall we put in the ark? Only that which has been commanded. Only that we may listen. Our attention. Our obedience. Our vigilance. What shall we put in the ark? Our ears, our hearts. Nothing, but the testimony. How He speaks and moves. The sound of his laughter. The sound of our cries. His provision. His victory. The walls, fallen. The necks, broken. The hands, [...]

tara shea burke

Provocation and witness is what I strive for; to provoke and to witness is, to me, poetry’s true radical.

What's the relationship between the domestic surfaces and rules being catalogued, and the advertisement that thinks it's geared towards women?

Why am I relieved when I read the text, "of course we can't just be friends"?

Will I ever view a balcony the same way again?

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Form we desire because it means
the thing has yet to rot.

Build/surround/ yourself with
like relics. Sit. There’s ruin here.

The best invention, morphine.

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Fig. 260: A flyer for classes meeting at the fire station. Ladies are welcome to come learn furniture repair. Ladies are welcome to come learn tailoring skills. Ladies are welcome to come learn how to be more in the home. Ladies are welcome to learn, welcome to content themselves with domestic expertise.

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    Originally from Kentucky and upstate New York, Trista Dymond moved to Detroit in 2004, where she has steadily evolved her practice, immersed in the ebb and flow of the Motor City. Aesthetically and personally, she is currently invested in observing the art of stillness -- which she often finds in the most unlikely environments, including The Heidelberg Project, where she works as site manager and resident artist.  

THE FOURTH WAVE KISSING PARTY Let’s not invite the whole class; let’s pretend that we are the bosses of the fourth wave. [The Fourth Wave, JoyceAnn McManus would say. In all caps, she would say] and when she is done being the boss of the way words will appear, we’ll kick JoyceAnn out of the waves. When we play pretend, we’ve got on cowboy hats and eucalyptus panties—refreshing!—and go off into the sunset every evening and to the disco every night. [That would be cowgirl hat or cowwoman hat JoyceAnn McManus would say and bucking broncos and steers and the dull-eyed cows she would say not noticing that girl and woman have been left behind for altogether new pronouns JoyceAnn McManus wrings and wrings and wrings her hands] and we [...]

  This is the final part of Joan's essay.      When viewing the poems of Jorie Graham in the Sea Change collection, it’s a little harder to pinpoint place. Graham’s poems have narrators that inhabit more of an internalized physiological place. This is a much different approach than Tretheway’s internalization of place. Graham does not rely on characters influenced, defined or trapped by place. There are few external settings in Graham’s poems. There is also not the hierarchal feeling we get from Hull’s poems or the definite characterization in the sense of place we see with Di Piero.      Graham, instead, has a feeling of total embodiment in her poems as if it is both a foundation and a place of diffusion and dispersal. The narrators inhabit the world around [...]

The Nest By Carl Dennis The omens of fall are out again. We sit in the park with our feet bedded in leaves. The wind widens, The sun grows small, Warnings that friends should band together For joint defenses before the end. Now it seems foolish for anyone To grow cold alone. You want me to turn and notice you But I look inside. There I can see bare branches With a single bird Peering out at the litter of fall. He has built his nest too high in the tree Or too small. This poem, like all Dennis poems, has a simple surface but a lurking depth. Its title, right off, tells us there is a bird involved, or at least the evidence of a bird. Birds in poetic [...]

This week's work is almost Shainbergian in how all of it expresses/discusses the beauty and attraction of private, interior spaces -- the erotic appeal, if you will, of personal detail. What is revealed, however, doesn't function a cheap thrill, but rather as a comforting, sustaining experience that reminds us the importance of actual contact, of being invited in. (So frequently mired as we are among the many unwelcoming surfaces of this world, no?)