I wrote this poem during the early months of the pandemic while I was at home imagining other unprecedented historical moments, other worlds interrupted. It got me thinking about how terrifying the present is in general. How shapeless, and chaotic. How uncomfortable it is to sit with our unknowing, how strong the desire for narrative, and yet how vital to do as Rilke advised and “live our questions.”
Austen Leah Rose on "Quarantine" |
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Naomi Shihab Nye Wins the 2024 Wallace Stevens Award
“In a stunning spectrum of works published in a period beginning nearly fifty years ago, Naomi Shihab Nye has borne witness to the complexities of cultural difference that connect us as human beings, evidencing a firm commitment to the poet as bearer of light and hope,” Academy Chancellor Afaa Michael Weaver said in a press release." The Wallace Stevens Award recognizes “outstanding and proven mastery in the art of poetry," and brings each winner $100,000.
via LITHUB |
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What Sparks Poetry: Aaron McCollough on "Not at Duino"
"I am increasingly persuaded that American Christianity’s embrace of Donald Trump is simply the latest expression of a terrific counter-scandal, effectively another, much more gradual transvaluation of values, whereby the dominant American secular and religious visions have aligned themselves with a cult of progress, the technocratic human image for which power can only mean domination, exploitation, and mastery. The key joke of this era is the one where the man puts a gun to his head, and when his wife starts laughing says to her, 'What’s so funny? You’re next!'" |
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