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In Honor Of The Thanksgiving Holiday, The North American Review Would Like To Start A Series Of Posts This Week And Hopefully Continue Throughout This Season To Show Thanks To All Of Our Contributors For Their Works Of Literature And Art. 

Cornucopia ...

The power of surrender

I live a double life as a poet and a yoga instructor. It’s a curious intersection. The forms are different, but the process surprisingly similar: shedding the unnecessary to find the essential.

There’s a lot of unnecessary to surrender.

In yoga training, there is continuous undoing, from the narrowed brow to the tightened shoulders, held breath, and barricades throughout the body. If we don’t undo these tensions, we train them into the positions we are relentlessly practicing...



Our Halloween blog features a poem in light of our James Hearst Poetry Prize Contest called "Maria Callas' Tapeworm" from issue 300.4, Fall 2015 by Frank...

The North American Review would like to wish everyone a very special Happy Halloween Weekend. Today we have a poem featured by Anne Barngrover from issue 300.4, Fall 2015.


Water's Touch

Alyce Miller's poem titled "On Finding a Legless Doll at the Beach Called Park Facing Southeast, California" was published in issue 295.3 of the North American Review.



According to family stories, where we are “from” is a skein of yarn bound tightly around a wooden spool. The yarn is so plentiful that the shape of the skein is no longer oblong but rather more spherical. We are from Chuluota, Florida; from Richmond Hill, New York; Toronto, Canada; Croydon, England; Georgetown, Guyana; New Amsterdam, Guyana; Crabwood Creek, Berbice; Chennai, Tamil Nadu; Barabanki, Uttar Pradesh; Allahabad, UP; Patna, Bihar. After all of the yarn is unraveled, there is no...

Sometimes I wonder if I would choose the life of a freelance poet again - a life that means never feeling secure in a practical sense, a life that means never having a holiday or vacation with pay or even a steady paycheck or pension plan. Right now I am working on completing a 35th year anniversary issue of Lips, a poetry magazine I founded and still edit. Though because it has never had university or corporate sponsorship, I have never received a salary for it because, frankly,...

As I was writing the poem, "Composite Color," crayons had gone through a metamorphosis. There were no longer the eight basic colors of my day. They were replaced by a sixty-four color box and a growing sensitivity to racial connotations. Society had become a melting pot of cautious consciousness and the simple became complex. This simple characteristic was the trigger that changed a box of crayons into stickmen of racial segregation.

From the poem:
“a mixing bowl with no sense...

Our Baroque Sustenance by Dan Chelotti

When I was learning how to let poems be poems, I had meaning difficulties. As we learn to read poetry, this is a big problem: the facts shroud us from the mystery of the subject. Students often cry: “if I could only put a little bow on every little fact about poetry, compartmentalize them away into storage, and pull them out the next time I need to write a term paper.” But, alas, poems don’t like to be put into storage. Poems want to be draped over every living thing, and then they...

Illustration by Matt Manley

Happiness is a changing thing. One of the first statements on happiness I remember as a child came from watching reruns of the TV show Taxi. At one point, the Danny DeVito character, a cantankerous individual, surprises a love interest with the line: "Happiness is hard to come by in this life, and you have given me more than my share." Eight-year-old me tucked that one away, mulling it over now and then throughout life afterwards.

The phrasing alone makes the argument. The...


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