Category: Time
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A Life of Plenty
Gennady Privedentsev, “Still life with horn of plenty” Spell to Be Said upon Waking Trout’s maculate body, delible house of the wasps’ nests, white face of the horse — Draw close. A shadow closes your foxgrass, lichens your boulders. Cloudy the vow of the leaf in the water. Lion, where is your hunger? Come tortoise,…
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The Giller Kerfuffle & the Challenges of the Small Press & Carmine Starnino
There’s nothing wrong with making money, not a bit, but if you’re looking for a fat profit, the literary world, and the world of the small press, is the wrong place to be looking. So let me begin by acknowledging all the brave hearts who put their all into publishing necessary books in beautiful editions…
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Squared
Holy smokes, it’s November. This is when I really began to panic. Not because of the holidays or shopping — we simply don’t participate that way — but because of what it all represents: the end of another year, the lightning passage of time. If you haven’t noticed, it’s speeding up. Someone needs to look…
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Intimations of Mortality
Lately I’m expending a lot of effort feeling frustrated by the lagging response times of most of the journals I’ve submitted to, fighting the urge to dash off mild yet curious emails regarding my poems. I feel stymied, depressed. Lately I’m frustrated by my failure to stabilize Aidan’s ever-erratic sleep schedule, my attempts at weaning,…
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“A body falls like a story: / beginning, middle, end.” — Amy Newman
Except in my case — my falling came to an abrupt halt. The back staircase was slick with rain, and I slipped on my first step, holding Aidan — who was entirely unhurt — (I sprained an ankle once falling down our front staircase holding Vincent, and he too was unhurt — I’m very good…
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Sub·mit (səb mit′) — origin: ME submitten < L submittere < sub-, under, down + mittere, to send
It’s September, the first days of autumn — officially here in two days — beginning of migration season — birds & leaves — colder temps and colds. Naturally, my children are celebrating by both of them coming down with whoppers of colds. I’m not the nervous type, but Aidan’s breathing so concerned me last night…
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Telling tales
For 48 hours, from dinner time on Thursday until Saturday night, Vincent was enthralled by “Syllabo.” His “sister.” He began talking about her and the island where she lived and barely stopped for anything. He appeared by the bathtub while I was taking a shower to tell me more (“Mommy, did you know that Syllabo…
Marie Gauthier 