A poem by alumnus Matthew Olzmann (poetry, ’09) appears at Ampersand Review:
Orlen!! Just now, I was remembering, several winters
back, you were telling me that if you got stuck
while writing a poem, you’d try to make
a “random seeming, radical move” toward
a different subject, something to jar the work
onto newer terrain, and be sorted
out in later drafts. I like “newer terrain,”
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A poem by alumnus Matthew Olzmann (poetry, ’09) appears at Mead Magazine:
I’d like a day where all the buildings remain intact.
Let the Hydra stay asleep beneath the surface.
Let the tornado be befuddled, yawn,
go back to bed. No floods. No lightning strikes.
No movie theaters where a man walks
in with a terrible idea hidden in his coat.
Forgive me, for I have longed
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A story by alumna Helen Hooper (fiction, ’09) appears at American Short Fiction:
The window over the kitchen sink looks out at the backyard. Theory’d been, she could watch the kids play. Croquet or whatever. That was a long time ago. Carl had put in a garden that turned out to be popular with local wildlife. Once the shoots were up they came and returned, voracious. Subsequent Googling to learn that deer like edge habitat. Which is what this is, he said. The edge. The best place.
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A poem by alumna Cheney Crow (poetry, ’14) appears in The Cortland Review:
As he closed the door
one night he said,
If you don’t find me in bed in the morning,
Look in the south field.
I’ll be in my white suit.
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A poem by alumna Rosalynde Vas Dias (poetry, ’06) appears at Four Way Review:
What do you know
of the former
beloved/still beloved?
He lives in another
city or speaks
infrequently.
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Faculty member Marianne Boruch’s essay, “Saint Kevin, Saint Blackbird,” from the fall 2014 issue of FIELD is currently featured on Poetry Daily:
Certain poems have inside them the source of all poems. I’ve thought this, and probably said it many times. Because it is these I love instinctively, pretty much automatically, poems I read and reread. They share their bounty and radiate wildly or so quietly. They return me—and perhaps others—to the reason one writes poems in the first place. This is not sentimental. This is fact, real as fable to haunt and light the way forward, back to prehistory.
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Two poems by alumna Rose McLarney (poetry, ’10) appear at This Land Press:
First in Right
A subdivision’s plumbing, a predictable grid, is of greater
worth than irrigating the uncertain growth of stalk and vine,
sees the farmer who sells his water rights, looking ahead.
But with the rivers, nothing moves forward
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A new piece by faculty member Robin Romm appears at Role Reboot:
I could accumulate objects even if the people and life I loved and wanted more than any object were stripped from me ruthlessly, brutally.
After my mother died, my father couldn’t bring himself to empty out her closets. My mother had been sick for a decade, declining slowly throughout my 20s. She had plenty of time to feel all the things people feel when they understand that they’re dying, when it no longer feels like an abstraction, but rather a fact. She felt alone. She felt afraid. She felt able to appreciate the sun on her face, the velvet of a cat’s ear. She felt out of control. She felt grateful for her friends. She felt air hunger. She felt like something in her was against her, was eating her alive.
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A poem by alumnus Matthew Olzmann (poetry, ’09) appears at The Ampersand Review:
Realizing the possibility that my wife and I might never have children,
I write a brief note to that which does not exist
I’m glad I’ll never have to bail you out of jail.
I’ll never have to carry you into an emergency room.
I’ll never have to explain politics,
or what they’re thinking in Wisconsin, or Arizona,
or even next door where one man is shouting holes
into his children and you can almost hear the fear
inside their bodies. So many things are being broken.
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A poem by alumnus RJ Gibson (poetry, ’11) appear at VerseDaily:
Mid-June: this sky a Schuyler sky,
scalloping off toward every horizon, a blue I lack
the name for, like a shirt
I admired with stays
instead of buttons. But on this spot what
had been a wild brown rabbit.
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