The Spring Issue | 2025
Herewith, our (late) Spring Issue, breaking the cold in anticipation of lazy months to come. Check back daily for new poems, stories and more.
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Herewith, our (late) Spring Issue, breaking the cold in anticipation of lazy months to come. Check back daily for new poems, stories and more.
no one cared, not then, not now, still what got lost & when, on the snowy side of a street, cold buildings cold book in hand inscribed in colored pencil no myth but those imagined & those at best misunderstood
Geoffrey pulls his hand from his pocket and withdraws the four-inch handle of a switchblade knife. Jason’s face turns ghostly. The American yells and runs out the door, causing his friend to follow. Most of the others never saw what Geoffrey showed the White man, although they laugh at the commotion it causes and applaud the result.
Even the curve of a conch shell / goes forever inward to an ending / too small for us to see. I put my ear
My mother / paid for groceries one dollar bill / at a time. When I left home // she lost a third of her aid.
If our parents were here, they would already have sent us to bed. / And once again, I wouldn’t notice that it’s my younger brother
The big story is the old dog dying slowly, / half her mouth working tender bits / she is hand fed, strokes or tumor /
I dreamt kindness to animals was widespread, / Their demand on our powers greater and still greater. // If a rope broke, we released the
I know my neighbours by their walk. / Our walls are thin. A sort of string / between two cans, our stack of floors. /
Geoffrey pulls his hand from his pocket and withdraws the four-inch handle of a switchblade knife. Jason’s face turns ghostly. The American yells and runs
Horror stares back at me surreptitiously from every corner of the flat with wide-open cats’ eyes. The reflexes I had of old have become alien
He is not our first dead tourist. We have had copter incidents, people cutting legs on ice, avalanche victims. One lady fell down a mine
How many times did I tell the children? We got this by a stroke of luck, and to luck it might return. Don’t fold it
Mom ruined her $350 wedding dress running barefoot through a cornfield. The hem gathered silky topsoil like the wind.
I got spit on while I was walking down the street, going home after a bad date with the son of a guy who wrote
There must be thousands of us non-Southerners with similar secret histories, people who profited from the crime of slavery and continue to do so.
Prose Poetry and the City by Donna Stonecipher Parlor Press, 2017 182 pages Reviewed by Kate Singer I once asked Donna Stonecipher
HANS, THAT HANS He has to get off at Fredericksburg Hill, right before the city of Copenhagen, a so-called freeloader on the postal
Hostovsky’s fondness for words and keen ear for spoken language benefit his writing: he can record and create dialogue in a brilliant and natural way. In this respect, he has more in common with short-story writers than with most contemporary poets, who tend to avoid direct speech.
W. H. Auden once said that poets should dress like businessmen. Thom Gunn preferred leather and chains.
These four poets and their recent books are representative of the poetry currently being written in Southwest England and the country more broadly.
B O D Y interviews Scott Kiernan, a New York-based artist whose video, photo and installation works interact in ways that address their own materiality and means of distribution.
Anna Hawkins is an artist who works primarily in moving image and installation with an interest in the ways that images, gestures and language are circulated and transformed online and the impacts of technology on the intimate spheres of daily life.
Weaving together disparate references spanning across histories and geographies, German interdisciplinary artist Johanna Strobel explores the entanglement between philosophy, semiotics, and actuality.
“The biggest challenge of translating Sachs into English, for me, had to do with tracking the movement of her mind in the forming of a poem.”
The Russian Civil War was a truly terrible event in terms of awful acts of atrocious violence, but there’s also a weird sense of farce about this, of history being played at the wrong speed.
Andrey Filimonov comes from Tomsk, the 400-year-old “Athens of Siberia” and center of White Russian resistance during the Russian Civil War.
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