I’m moved by the ways that we can look back our pasts, perhaps via a photograph or a journal entry, and see both how much of ourselves we recognise and somehow, simultaneously, how much we’ve transformed. This is a poem that mourns how any given time in life can be impossible to preserve, no matter how significant it might once have been.
Victoria Adukwei Bulley on "Fifteen" |
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"The Significance of Gertrude Stein’s Subversive Poems"
"For Stein, poetry’s proper subject would be poetry itself. Far from being an allegorizing occultist, the mission of Stein’s work was to distill language to its most basic elements whereby there is a redemption of abstraction only after descending through the most abject concreteness. What are a snowy wood, a red wheelbarrow, or a rose, but words, words, words."
viaLITHUB |
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What Sparks Poetry:
Evie Shockley on Language as Form
"I found this truism (which seems to readily reproduce itself: 'one sin begets another,' 'one tragedy begets another,' 'one wedding begets another') bubbling up in my brain. If only one vote begat another in that inevitable way, I sighed, thinking of how hard it was to get women’s right to vote established as the law of the land—and of how long it was after that before Black women were able to exercise their 'women’s rights.'" |
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