I first became aware of Kristine Snodgrass’s art through WAAVe (Women Asemic Artists & Visual Poets,) a project for which she is founder and curator. Asemic art/writing is a developing art/writing form which utilizes the gesture of writing (without established...
From my window, I look out at Montpelier’s empty streets, trying to tune out the COVID-19 news updates that ping and bing on my phone, asking myself why this all feels so eerily familiar. I know this jumble of emotions. Fear, helplessness, despair, and also the sense that we’re all in this together.
Surrealism is a flight against Oblivion. Taking to the winds of Memory on the magical wings of the supra-real. Reality through an extraordinary idea of Reality. What creates memory and what creates forgetfulness, surrealism asks us to ask ourselves.
Your anger arrives on the back of a train/Arrives in my yard. The neighbor’s grass too long, and the city getting interested
I thought talking politics with the manager at the Salt Cavern would be safe—I mean, salt therapy much? But, turns out, Gary had been held up when he worked as a liquor store cashier and had been backing gun rights legislation by way of NRA donations and bumper sticker activism ever since.
We’re sitting idle, another day of no skin, / no face up-turned. It’s not that rain streams us
Can we ever escape the consequences of an immoral action, even if we think some good will come out of it? Thrity Umrigar, a prominent Indian-American writer, a professor, a journalist, and a Nieman Fellowship recipient, narrates a tale, Everybody’s Son, in which an immoral and illegal act changes lives and makes us wonder whether justice and atonement will follow.
Remember when you lived by a single quote, / repeated most days / with a fundamentalist zeal, / little need to say more?
After Airdra divorced me, I gained forty pounds and killed our parakeet. I should have let Airdra take her beloved bird but inflicting pain was my top priority.
“I walked the tide’s edge / to hear the waves’ hushed dirge,” Jenny Molberg writes in her debut collection Marvels of the Invisible, and the reader walks beside her, line by line, listening to the way a voice can enter the earth and her oceans, and deepen.
In the blue bathroom, my mother’s hidden Kotex. / My pajama crotch smeared with first blurred fire.
I learned a lot from the free museum lecture on the Reformation, / how it wasn’t really Holy or Roman or an Empire at all / when I step back and let the big picture blur. That night / at the trattoria, a stranger with thinning gray wisps