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poem


This week I spent some time at Randolph College, a private liberal arts institution in the hills of Lynchburg, Virginia. As a visiting writer, I gave a reading and waxed poetic with environmental studies and creative writing students. And I participated in an environmental writing class (a course I sure wish my college offered way back when) comprised of a mix of majors and taught by Laura-Gray Street.

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First the problem. Writers must seek criticism from others, especially those better than themselves (tournament Scrabble players study the strategies of those by whom they are beaten). It’s just like that or you literally lose the plot, and ten chapters later your tender romance that began on the sands of Nags Head has turned into an eldritch fable about the gods of the underworld. And someone has...

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What a grave and fickle thing is memory. With little collaboration, it can betray or redeem. It can make of us the fool, the saint, the criminal, the victim. It can create itself anew, and be lost with...

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It’s the last day of my introductory poetry writing class, and my students are giving their recitations and presentations for a final project I call “Live with a Poem.” One...

Obsessed with the magic of words—their essence and their sound—I fell in love with the word de cid u ous when it fortuitously crossed my path. I embedded it like a seed. I imagined it as a poem. Its very sound parallels its meaning: a falling off, a shedding that also implies a continuing, a renewal - dying yet deathless.

I love the thought of deciduous parts of trees, of shrubs, of insects. I live in the Eastern United States where we have full seasons (or did before climate...

fallingwebsite deborah doolittle

First and foremost, I am a community college English instructor. That’s my day—and sometimes night—job. I look for teachable moments in everything...

Susan

People sometimes ask me what I have learned as an editor about submitting my own work. Well, some of the things I’ve learned are probably well understood by most writers, but often forgotten. Literary magazines receive an...

I lived for years on Minnesota’s Iron Range, where I worked as a miner as well as at other trades. One of the scenes that sticks most clearly in my mind is the pit of the Rocheleau Mine. It was a brooding presence, a yawning pit that had been shut down long before my arrival on The Range. I saw it often, though through a chain-link fence, as I walked to the end of the main downtown street of Virginia...

Ann Hudson - Between_winter_and_spring_

You might have heard that we had a bit of winter up here in the Heartland.  Mounds of snow on top of mounds of snow. We shovelers were out morning and evening...

strange collage

My favorite poetic technique of the moment is collage, specifically collage by quotation. I love how collage is so disruptive, so...

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