The angel of the black bowl sets it on the table.The girl sits down. She will not eat. She wears a dress the color of her mother’s hunger.She does not believe in breakfast, dreamsthe eggs’ songs dead in their shells. —from “Morning,” by Sally Rosen Kindred, in Volume 59, Issue 3, Fall . . .
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Tell us about one of the first pieces you created.It’s 1949, I’m six years old, lying on the floor, thumbing through Life Magazine and I find a photo story on Jackson Pollock. Immediately I realize: that’s me, that’s who I want to be! The next day our first grade teacher surprises us with easels . . .
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The shortcut proved the long way round. Mid-summer,Insomniac sun. She ambled through the market.Throngs pressed the flesh. Is this salmon firm and fresh?These strawberries plump and sweet, as ripe as June?Crubeens and chickens, carrageen moss and peas.The price went up according to the depthOf hunger in a voice. “Cheap flowers,””cheap flowers,”—from “Barter,” . . .
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Up out of the trailer, the apartment in Harlem, the estate of the estranged circus stars— All lit true by . . .
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Road-kill seasonand the borrowed breathof woodland on the vergeis the easiest exit for whateverafterlife was promised.Velvet & quiver.—from “Jersey Bruiser,” Summer 2018 (Vol. 59, Issue 2) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.When I was seven, I wrote a book about the end of the world. There were potato-headed . . .
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“The river was collecting snow on itself. Almost nobody was coming to see it. Its banks were either slick and muddy, or frozen and rutted. The river was letting itself go. Here and there it was jammed with branches that trapped chunks of ice from the current, and plastic jugs and scraps . . .
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I first met Sterling Stuckey in Chicago fifty-five years ago. In the spring of 1963, Sterling and a group of high school teachers—graduate students at the University of Chicago—were in the process of forming a community-based organization to address the “lack of a proper consideration of the role of the Negro in . . .
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Photo caption: Jonathan, age 7, having just finished his first poem But she was never coming through the snow.The cottontail’s earth door gapesAnd in its coldThroatHer kitten waits. —From “Origins of Poetry ” Summer 2018 (Volume 59, Issue 2) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I’ve been writing poems, . . .
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It’s almost four o’clock and the hour hand quivers. They told Mr. Ignazio Coppola to sit here and be a good boy now, and wait. And Mr. Ignazio sits waiting sedately as he was told to, his back straight and his hands spread on his knees. Every now and then he looks . . .
Read MoreIf you’re reading this blog, one of two things can be assumed: either that you made a point of seeing the new Spike Lee film this past weekend, during the first anniversary of the march on Charlottesville, or that you’ve read at least a review or two, and so already suspect that . . .
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