Two poems by Jayne Benjulian (poetry, ’13), “Sister” and “Peace’s Farm” appear online at The Ilanot Review:

Sister

She gives me holy hell when I trim Elvis’ whiskers. That’s how
they fit through things. Potatoes for breakfast & whatever else she
feels like eating, skinny, you’re falling away to a tonha ha, I total

the bike, Dr. Litvak cleans the pebbles from my knee, stitches the
skin closed over the bone, holy Mary mother of god, we’re Jewish
but that’s what we say, that’s what the Garibaldis say, holy Mary, 

…[Keep Reading]…

Jayne’s essay, “The Dramaturgy of Audience: Jayne Benjulian goes to the Theater as a Civilian,” appears at HowlRound:

The last time I wrote for HowlRound, in October 2011, I was director of new play development at a theater. Since then, I have turned to the work of solitary writing. I have been in a kind of self-imposed exile learning again to write poetry, earning an MFA and assembling a manuscript of poems. Recently, after lunch with a mentor, I found myself in Philadelphia with nothing to do and no one to call. I bought a ticket to the Wilma Theater—and I emphasize that I paid for a theater ticket. I was too shy and too reluctant to call in favors for an industry ticket. And then, it dawned on me that I was presented with a gift: I might go to the theater as a civilian and see what it was like …[Keep Reading]…

“Catchy Tunes,” a poem by Robert Thomas (poetry, ’02) appears online at Poetry Magazine.

It’s not just this. Every written word is a suicide note.
And a love letter, too.

There may be no one to talk to who would get it,
but if you write it down maybe someone will get it after you’ve left the room,

or in five hundred years, or maybe someone from Sirius, the Dog Star,
will get it. The composer Karlheinz Stockhausen

claimed he was born on Sirius. You remember him:
the genius who said the crashing of planes

into the World Trade Center was the greatest concert ever held,
although he later conceded the audience had not been given the option

to not attend
and that somewhat diminished its perfection.  …[Keep Reading]…

“Astronomers Locate a New Planet,” a poem by Matthew Olzmann (poetry, ’09; Beebe Fellow, ’12) appears online at Hyphen.

“Because it is so dense, scientists calculate the carbon must be crystalline, so a large part of this strange world will effectively be diamond.” — Reuters, 8/24/2011

Like the universe’s largest engagement ring, it twirls
and sparkles its way through infinity.
The citizens of the new world know about luxury.
They can live for a thousand years.
Their hearts are little clocks
with silver pendulums pulsing inside.
Eyes like onyx, teeth like pearl.
But it’s not always easy. They know hunger.
They starve. A field made of diamond
is impossible to plow; shovels crumble and fold
like paper animals. So frequent is famine,
that when two people get married,
one gives the other a locket filled with dirt.
That’s the rare thing, the treasured thing, there.
It takes decades to save for,
but the ground beneath them glows, and people find a way.

…[Keep Reading]…

“Lost Things,” a story by Lisa Van Orman Hadley (fiction, ’09) appears online at New England Review.

We’ve lost teeth, for one thing. One hundred and sixty baby teeth among us, not counting wisdom teeth. Some of them fell out easily. When they didn’t, my father gave us two options: the pliers or the door. Each choice inflicted its own particular kind of pain. The pliers bore a pain of certainty—the pain of knowing that once they were clamped down tight, the tooth would come out carefully, slowly, achingly. The door held a pain of surprise. My father would tie one end of a piece of string to the tooth and then tie the other end to a door handle. Then he would pretend to slam the door several times until he finally did it for real and the tooth would go with it. If we were lucky, the suddenness of it all would override any actual pain. I, thankfully, lost my first tooth at six while eating an apple in my parents’ bedroom. …[Keep Reading]…

Mary Lou Buschi (poetry, ’04) recently spoke with SWARM magazine:

Brandon Amico: What was the germ that brought “Scouts” on, the little thing that set the writing of this poem in motion? And is the final product a combination of memory and imagination, or does it sit solely in one of those camps (sorry, I couldn’t resist the pun)?

Mary Lou Buschi: In truth, I was never a Girl Scout.  I only made it as far as the Brownies. The girls were mean and I hate uniforms and groups that follow rules or recite pledges or prayers, so even as a little kid I knew it wasn’t for me.  The penultimate moment, when Helen puts the corsage in her mouth, was a moment of absolute disgust told to me by a friend who did make it into the Girl Scouts.  I found her disgust really interesting so I followed the instinct to write the poem.  I also felt that her fear/disgust was closely linked to the speaker of “In the Waiting Room” by Elizabeth Bishop.  Although the speaker in “Scouts” denies any likeness to Helen, she remains “other,” safe in her 8 year old self.  So, to answer your question the poem is imagined.

Read the full interview at SWARM

Mary Lou Buschi is the author of The Spell of Coming (or Going) (2013, Patasola Press).

Gabriel Blackwell (fiction, ’09) recently spoke with Vol. 1 Brooklyn as part of their “Between Books” interview series.

GabeFace

It started with a cover: a familiar detective-novel image slowly bleeding into the abstract. This was my first encounter with the work of Portland’s Gabriel Blackwell: picking up a copy of his Shadow Man after hearing good things about some then-recent readings he’d given in NYC. Subtitled “A Biography of Lewis Miles Archer,” Blackwell’s book creates a narrative out of the spaces in which noir‘s chroniclers and its characters overlap: a dense, thrilling work with hints of abused power and still-buried secrets. His collection Critique of Pure Reason contained work that bent the lines between fiction, history, and (at times) criticism; it’s nearly impossible to describe, but never less than compelling. I checked in with Blackwell to discuss his methods, his inspiration, and what works and histories might inspire his future projects. (Hint: one Howard Phillips Lovecraft makes an appearance, as does a certain storied British filmmaker.)

Read the interview at Vol. 1 Brooklyn

Four poems by Leslie Shipman (poetry, ’07) appear online at BOMB Magazine.

Another Disappointing Perigee Moon

Hello, supermoon, my full-fledged saturant:
blaze-bright in the black sky. Tonight,

a mess is born. The marriage of chaos
and affection. To know too much, to desire

too much, the first time like a relic.

The oval orbit spins itself dizzy,
circles close, pulls away, deranges

the distances.

This is how I want you to be:

a body astonished, strung tight
across the black matte of evening.

A little bit drunk. Gaze-shy and stroked.

What to say when surrender comes?
What becomes of our promise to behave

like lovers? Science doesn’t lie.
It’s the end of a beautiful summer.

Read more at BOMB

Faith S. Holsaert has won the Press 53 Open Award for her novella, Chosen Girl.

From Judge David Abrams:

…This is a full-bodied portrait of a full life, lived between World War Two and Vietnam, between Jim Crow and McCarthyism, between the innocence of a four-year-old girl and the resonant memories of a thirty-year-old woman…. The best compliment I can pay this novella of a few dozen pages is that when I arrived at the end, I felt like I’d just emerged from the richly built world of a thick novel. I would gladly spend many more hours inside Deborah’s life.

From Chosen Girl:

In the beginning were my parents, shoulder to shoulder, the baby floating within their massed outline.

I sat close, in either lap, during their disputes.

My father said, “Oliver Twist. It’s a wretched book, Deirdre. You like it because you read it as a child.”

“I like it because it’s about people. Not like your Eliot, who writes about things.”

“Deirdre, Fagan’s a sentimental abomination.”

She held me tight against her bosom, and I learned how her muscles tightened when she clenched her teeth. “Well I love that book.”

“Fagan’s an anti-Semitic stereotype,” said my WASP father.

She struck quickly. “Are you Virginia Woolf to my Leonard?” My Jewish mother.

Silence.

Keep Reading at Outhistory.org

Losing the Horizon, a collection by Priscilla Orr (poetry, ’93), was recently published by Hannacroix Creek Books.

In Losing the Horizon, award-winning poet Priscilla Orr’s second collection, whose first anthology was Jugglers and Tides, shares her feelings on love, aging, loss and death, as well as the comfort and courage we find in the natural cycle of the seasons — spring, summer, winter and fall. What they’re saying about Losing the Horizon: “This is a moving, poignant collection from a mature voice at the top of her craft.” —Paul Genega

Read more at HannacroixCreekBooks.com

Corey Campbell (fiction, ’12) recently spoke with Arizona State University about her experiences teaching fiction to prisoners.

Friday mornings start with the 63-plus mile drive across Phoenix, past Apache Junction, and into the desert. “Usually I’m nervous before class,” she says. Then she hastens to add, “But not because they’re prisoners, and not even because they’re sex offenders” (that detail she learned the week before her first class). No, what Campbell worries about is whether her lessons will encompass all their interests and needs! “I try,” she notes modestly.

Campbell’s regard for what the prisoners themselves are trying to do is very clear in some of the following stories she shares about them: “Marcus writes a fantasy trilogy about an ancient fighter named O.M.A. (One Man Army). Bobby’s poem, ‘The Birth of Hope,’ describes an inmate’s desire for a rainbow, the only lover who dares visit him in prison. Then there is Notso, initially the most confrontational—writing a monologue from my point of view for the first assignment—who has become my biggest supporter, submitting an encyclopedic history of elderly war veterans on a park bench remembering. Notso’s last name is Smart, so he calls himself ‘Notso,’ and asks that we do the same: Notso Smart.”

“Then there’s Wesley, missing his front teeth, who told me once that everyone appears to be friends in workshop but on the yard are only acquaintances. His first submission described a beaming couple planning their wedding while on a Caribbean vacation. In detail he described the succulent jerk chicken they ate, how the sand gloriously rubbed their feet, where they planned to snorkel the next day.” Reading the rich description of this imaginative journey, Campbell realized that Wes was writing to take a vacation. “He didn’t care when we demanded he add tension and conflict; the piece had already served its purpose for him. He wanted to get away!”

Read the full article at ASU’s “The Teaching Zone”