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 . . .
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“After a heated debate about the natureof inspiration (poetry versus prose),with you arguing that idea begets word,and not vice versa, as I believe is the case with verse (always the music first),which was prompted by a discussionof Dickinson’s envelope poems,and whether she wrote the poem”—from “Sixth Year: Iron,” Summer 2018 (Vol. 59, . . .
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The Massachusetts Review presents the latest Working Titles e-book: ON THE QUAY AT SMYRNA by Margot Demopoulos—available this week! From ON THE QUAY AT SMYRNA: “Look for color in the shadows!” Madame La Fleur fanned herself with a workbook on natural light. “Look at the sky until you see!” Penelope sat on a stool facing a . . .
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“Trees on the bluff, its layered limestone and the plants grown into rockface, down to the river road and in across two pontoons and the water you stand in. Try to make the image wash you out. You take on the sun’s halo,” —from . . .
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I am posting this blog entry on 6 August 2018. At 8:15 a.m. local time, exactly seventy-three years ago, a Boeing B-29 Superfortress piloted by Colonel Paul W. Tibbets dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. This is a fact. In three days we are going to commemorate the seventy-third anniversary of the . . .
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“We came to help reforest the land, but as we walk through the bukhara, the local name for our patch of wasteland, we pack rocks into the parched soil with each step. Even the cactuses growing here are a miracle. When we come across a scorched circle of ash, I am alarmed, but . . .
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“…They did not skip stones or draw in the sand with a stick or collect shell fragments, though Alex did all those things when the four of them were all together.There was always a beach walk after dinner. And, day or night, Alex and her parents always held hands. Nick tried not . . .
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Crack in the mug the wine seeps into, a pink vein. How close it all feels.How close to the firehouse, how far From home. You bring the pumpsAnd I’ll bring the glitter, but no one’s willing To make the first sound… —from “Impermeable Material Suit,” Summer 2018 (Vol. 59, Issue 2) Tell . . .
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“Panic tightened Jean’s throat. Apple’s face had become the final hold–out, drifting somewhere about her chest. Her shoulders were sloping particularly the left, which hung nearer and nearer the floor. Everywhere drops were swelling, and every so often one would become too heavy and fall to the carpet. She seemed, by will, . . .
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“When Iggy moved now, she shimmered in red, blue, and yellow pixels melding into an overall impression of green. And she was always moving, pacing the cage from end to end. She resisted being picked up, struggling and thrashing her tail. The boy could not help being afriad, but his love only . . .
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