4th Annual NAPOMO 30/30/30 :: Day 14 :: Managing Editor Lynne DeSilva-Johnson on Alice Notley's 'Culture of One'
[line] [superquote] Nothing occurs by chance, Marie thinks. Not in my life. I walk inside a lucent force, and I project it too — No, she doesn’t think this. She thinks, Nothing’s been an accident, but there’s no name for what’s in charge. People, being
I. When I first read William Blake in a Romantic Poetry class my junior year of college, it set off immediate shockwaves. I had read the Beats and knew that they were big Blake fans, but had never read any of his
Reading Joshua Mehigan's collections The Optimist (2004) and Accepting the Disaster (2014), I was struck by the understated, low-key way in which the author delivered the most impactful passages in his poems, causing them to go straight to the reader’s
I am writing this on the third anniversary of my father’s death. In Judaism, we remember a lost parent not on their birthday, but on their yahrzeit; a memorial anniversary marked by the day they passed. [articlequote]Tradition regards this day as
Cities are the most manmade of places, the most jammed with bodies, skin and steel. [textwrap_image align="right"]http://www.theoperatingsystem.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/hull_l.jpg[/textwrap_image] Lynda Hull’s poems are the cities and their dwellers, wide-hipped lyrics, shadows in doorways drunk off whiskey and their own dark music, hymns of
[articlequote]We say thought’s object is not knowledge but living.”[/articlequote] As an undergrad sociology major I became obsessed with the Situationist International. Hyperradical, theory-obsessed, and obscure almost to the point of obnoxiousness, they seemed to be everything the American hippie flower children
When he was a child, W. H. Auden had a friend. One weekend, when Robert Medley was staying at the Audens' home at Harborne, England, Auden's mother found a poem that alarmed her. She gave it to Auden's father, physician
My transition from “actor” to “writer” turned out to be harder than I thought. I was in my second year at Oberlin and had begun to drift away from the theatre community that had been so much of my self-definition.
In her book of essays Proofs and Theories, Louise Gluck writes, “The argument for completion, for thoroughness, for exhaustive detail, is that it makes an art more potent because more exact – a closer recreation of the real. But the
[line] Several years ago, I was coming off of a particularly painful year that commenced with the severing of a seven-year relationship and ended with the passing of my grandmother. From the moment my grandmother stepped foot in this country, she