Jenny Johnson (poetry, ’11) is a poet and educator based in Pittsburgh whose first collection of poems, In Full Velvet, is forthcoming from Sarabande Books in 2017. She was recently honored with a 2015 Whiting Award. Her poems have appeared in The Best American Poetry 2012Los Angeles Review of Books Quarterly, New England Review, Troubling the Line: Trans & Genderqueer Poetry & Poetics, and elsewhere. She won Beloit Poetry Journal ’s 2011 Chad Walsh Poetry Prize. She has also received awards and scholarships from the Blue Mountain Center, the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, The Pittsburgh Foundation, and Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She earned her M.F.A. in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. Currently, she is a Lecturer at the University of Pittsburgh where she teaches writing and gender studies. As a Hodder Felllow, she will begin work on her second book of poems. 

The full announcement is available here:  http://arts.princeton.edu/news/2016/01/five-artists-named-2016-17-hodder-fellows/

 

Friends of Writers congratulates  Margaree Little (poetry, ’12) for receiving the Kenyon Review Fellowship.  Here is the announcement from the Kenyon Review blog:

From the start the searing quality of Margaree Little’s poems separated her from other superb candidates. Here is an excerpt from “The Heron,” a meditation on discovering an immigrant’s body in the desert of the American Southwest:

Read the poem and the the full post here: http://www.kenyonreview.org/2016/01/why-we-chose-them/

A poem by alum Kerrin McCadden (poetry, ’14) appears at the Beloit Poetry Journal:

I want to tell you about the thud against the back door,
that my man says, “bird.” That later we see its tail
sticking out from underneath the siding. That its
tail feathers shine like oil, shifting purple to blue,

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Two stories by alum David Rutschman (fiction, ’02) appear at the Kenyon Review:

The Devil’s New Red Axe

One day the devil appeared to a simple woodcutter and offered him a new red axe. The woodcutter, dazzled, accepted the axe, which was lighter and sharper than any he had ever seen. That morning, he chopped and stacked over a week’s worth of wood; that afternoon he chopped and stacked even more.

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A piece by alum Nick Fox (fiction, ’09) appears at The Museum of Americana:

He was a dropout, a hobo, an oyster poacher. He was an excellent sailor, a less-excellent rancher, a deeply committed socialist, a boxing fanatic, an early ecologist. He was an alcoholic, a voracious reader, a boat builder, a failed gold miner and, in the language of the day, “a bastard.” He was perhaps the greatest adventure writer America has ever produced.

And he was the first writer whose work I fell in love with.

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A piece by alum Geoffrey Kronik appears at The Common:

Every morning I sat on the terrace and waited for him. Night would fade to gray dawn, the sun’s first rays struck the kilometer-high spire of Burj Khalifa,and then the sculler would appear. No other craft plied Dubai Creek at that hour, no working dhows or party cruises. River belonged to sculler and sculler to his boat, and I would sit with my coffee and envy him.

I envied him because he rowed, a sport I had long wished to try, and because he lived in sunny Dubai while I would soon return to wintry Boston. It was an anniversary trip and my wife slept late each day, her internal clock reset to holiday time. She never saw the sculler and I did not mention him: envy of a life you do not have is best hidden from those who share the one you do.

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An interview with alum Lenore Myka (fiction, ’09), conducted by alum Lynette D’Amico (fiction, ’13) appears at Fiction Writers Review:

Eudora Welty referred to setting/location as, “the ground conductor of all the currents of emotion and belief.” The more specific the place, the more resonant and meaningful the action. How does location/setting function in King of the Gypsies?

A long time ago, I heard an elderly writer lament the lack of setting in the stories his students were producing in some MFA program somewhere. I do feel there is an absence of setting in the stories of my students. My younger students say that “description is boring,” as if description were synonymous with place. And yet, when you read people like Carver or Beattie, writers who were called, for better or worse, minimalists, I feel a deeply rooted sense of place in their stories. It’s because their characters embody those places in some mysterious way. It’s ye olde iceberg, right? Even if the place doesn’t go into the story, it’s there in the writer’s mind and through some strange process of osmosis reveals itself on the page somehow.

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A piece by alum Goldie Goldbloom (fiction, ’11) appears at Hevria:

I first met Tzivia when her name was Susie. Actually, I was trying my hardest to avoid her because she was what was known as a bad girl and I was a goody-two-shoes, the teachers’ pet who sat right in the first row of desks, dead center. I got 100’s on all of my tests. I asked pertinent questions. I came prepared and did my homework weeks before it was due.

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A story by alum Mindy Friddle (fiction, ’05) appears at Steel Toe Review:

She found the crumpled receipt in his favorite pair of jeans. Silk camisole, fishnet black, garter black, peep-toe pumps red. One hundred thirteen dollars and fifty-one cents and thank you for shopping at Minerva’s Closet. Paid in cash. August 23 at 8:42 p.m. Yesterday. His bowling league night.

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A story by alum Peg Alford Pursell (fiction, ’96) appears at Storyscape Journal:

Tendrils and tangles of vines draped down the sides of the grape arbor in the backyard where nine-year-old Shelly lay underneath in the cool shade of late afternoon. Overhead, broad green leaves formed a thick mat blocking out the sun’s rays. A sliver of silvery white sky fractured through now and again. She opened and closed her eyes, squinting then softening her vision, focusing in and focusing out, experiencing a strange sensation of separateness and distance from her surroundings. She was in charge of how she could view her surroundings. The voices of her mother and father shouting in the kitchen carried over the yard. She tried to do with her ears what she did with her eyes. By concentrating hard she muffled the sound and turned inward to hear what sounded like her own mind fizzing behind closed eyelids. She could make sound move in and out like waves of the ocean, but it wasn’t easy.

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