Madeleine did not want to go to the poetry festival in July, because no one else’s mother forces children to go to poetry festivals. She lowered her hat down over her forehead, leaving only a glower visible. No one. Else. She wanted to know why. Not a promising conversation in which to explore the ineffable […]
Incantations for Rain
Withered grass crackles under my feet, and my flip-flops leave a dusty trail en route to the backside of the farm. I am intent on closing a gate, but halfway along I kneel to study wide cracks of parched earth and discover underground ant highways and intersections exposed by the drought. I rise to the […]
The Grateful Shrub
Tonight, my flowerpots are so dry the water I pour in forces bubbles out of the soil. Unless I’ve watered it, every plant looks tired of trying to grow. Even the ones I have watered consistently all summer weep in the evening heat. In normal years, I often wonder at the power of flowers and […]
Hirshfield, Olson & Saunders: The Cloudy Vase
Book Spine Poetry
Wander around your basement or upstairs in your room. You’re sure to find a Cento Poem. We did.
Image-ine: colour seduction in burano venice
Take an exotic tour—in colorful words and photos—of Burano Venice. See if you don’t want to go there in your dreams and beyond.
The Poetry Alcove
I live in an older suburb of St. Louis, the oldest suburb, in fact, incorporated in 1857. Just a few blocks from our house are four used bookstores, kept well supplied no doubt, by local state sales and the numerous used book fairs held every year. The oldest of the four, and the one with […]
July Mosaics: Community
A few days after we announced our July Mosaics project, someone left us a tiny confession in the comment box. “When this idea was first posted, wrote Rosanne Osborne, “I admit I was dubious, but it’s been amazing to me how generative the experience has been.”
Scenes from The Whipping Club 2
At our recent poetry jam on Twitter, we went into the woods, then to the ballroom, and then back to the woods. And we created five poems as a start. Now we have the next seven, and we’re deep into shoes, and shoelaces, and lace and gossamer (you can see the thread developing) and back […]
July Mosaics: The Shards
Ben Henderson’s new wobble was supposed to be the secret weapon he needed to save his career.
Scenes from The Whipping Club
It was another TweetSpeak Poetry Twitter party last Tuesday, and 13 intrepid souls braved the shock of their Twitter followers and tweeted away, creating lines of poetry. The prompts were all taken from The Whipping Club by Deborah Henry, the novel published by T.S. Poetry Press and listed as one of Oprah’s Hot Summer Reads. […]
June Jazz: Stimulation
We buy a couple of corn dogs and head over to the free stage. My eyes wander off and I see a teenage girl standing on the back of a motorized wheelchair, lurching left and right, while her driver zig-zags across Main Street like a Hollywood stunt driver. I’m thankful city planners have shut down the streets to car traffic. Not just for the jazz festival.
But so people can move, for four days, any way they choose.
The Poetry of the Tree
Karen Swallow Prior considers the poetry of the tree, from Joyce Kilmer’s ‘Trees’ to ‘The Dream of the Rood.’
June Jazz: Dance
Jazz is what happens to all of us — when somebody jumps out of her box.
June Jazz: ‘Sweet Jazz O’ Mine’
Jazz great Art Blakey #once said, “Music washes away the dust of every day life.” With a pair of drumsticks, he did just that, uncovering a new style of bebop drumming. He gave music a new shine.
Poetry scrubs us down with a back-and-forth hygiene, too.
Taboo: Writing the Trees
Like many writers I know, I keep a taboo list. Nothing too long or formal, this is simply a list of words I must not write—at least at first, when beginning a new piece. Trees are there on my taboo list right now.
This Week’s Top 10 Poetic Picks
The best in poetry, (and poetic things), this week with Matthew Kreider.
May Play: Results
May Play began with a chance conversation with the owner of a candy shop.
Guaranteed Disease-Resistant
There was nothing like roses. I was addicted.
June Jazz: Improv
Light pours through the west end and floods the wooden floors of our home. James is in the front room, dancing. His clunky, horse-like heels stomp to a syncopated rhythm, following the dizzy-eyed direction of his four-year-old vision, rather than my music.