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...
Your anger arrives on the back of a train/Arrives in my yard. The neighbor’s grass too long, and the city getting interested
A visit to the hair salon every seven or eight weeks for me is the emotional equivalent of attending a high school reunion, the kind where two popular girls, naturally both cheerleaders, rush you in the restroom line, singsong, “Are you married yet? We didn’t think so,” and whizz off in a confetti of giggles.
Picture a garden, circling it, a field on fire, rich with color, but in that color is lack, and at first, you can assume a grander theme; assume a seduction associated with color or vibrancy, but that’s one of the first things you learn in school: everything is made up of shades.
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
The end of Frank’s world doesn’t go out with a bang or a whimper, but rather with the siren of the emergency broadcasting system and a smoky, pink smudge on the western horizon.
Patricia Colleen Murphy’s first collection, Hemming Flames, is an intricate and intimate portrait of family, struggle, grief, guilt, and moving through it all. It’s a book about feeling strange—not part of the family you were born into, and not really part of yourself—with the body you were born into. It’s a book about trying to find shreds of certainty, and about trying, period.
“Eden” by Tariq Thomas won the Youth Poetry, Prose and Pizza Slam hosted by the Brattleboro Literary Festival. Green Mountains Review is proud to publish Tariq’s poem. Congrats, Tariq!
My love, we floated for hours / In kayaks, side by side, scarcely dipping our paddles. / No motors allowed here, no soul in any / Of the southerly shore’s three other cabins.
The simple ways are the best. Roadkill / soup. Jumping out of airplanes / without a chute. Getting up with the sun
One day the rooster said to the little red wagon, “Little red wagon, I’ve sung my song. Won’t you give a me a ride around the farm?” “No,” the little red wagon said.
The worthy and wealthy men of color / stood on Golconda, gangplank, Savannah, / the blind Pharoah, thrown overboard, sorrow.