2021 poetry alum Lauren Carlson was recently featured in the LEON Literary Review. Read an excerpt of “Making a Way Around the Castle” below:

Making a Way for the Castle

Composure, first tell
me what it is. For example

fire. Warmth is what I
love. Fire’s comfort

is undeniable and you’ll
grant anyone that.

You tell me
other people are warm

and I have some
unnamable characteristic.

It whispers come here
in your ear.

Read this poem in its entirety, as well as two others, here: http://leonliteraryreview.com/issue-10-lauren-k-carlson/

2004 poetry alum Colleen Abel was recently featured in the LEON Literary Review. Read an excerpt of “Lament with Six Stitches” below:

Lament with Six Stitches

Everyone who looks at you sees
my face in your face

but this is a part of you I do not know:
one of the only parts, this inside of your skin, 

many layers down, flanged with white 
and pulpy-red, exactly as a split fruit.

Less than I ever do I see myself in you now—
blood trail down your shirt, the hole gaping 

between your eyes—I, who am so careful,
who only came close once to slipping

out from this world’s grasp: the day you 
came into it, a noose around your neck

that almost killed us both. And here 
we are again. 

Read this poem in its entirety, as well as another, here: http://leonliteraryreview.com/issue-10-colleen-abel/

2007 poetry alum Katie Bowler Young was recently featured in the LEON Literary Review. Read an excerpt of “Twilight Walks” below:

Twilight Walks

Through crowds and parks, past homes and shops,
across crosswalks, uphill, our quiet slipping
into conversation: which way now, our pasts,
what didn’t last: his son’s car, my first marriage,

and then through the narrow gate of a school,
where, near a fountain’s pool, there’s a mural
of a man, his open hands, with a woman, wide-eyed,
birds at her side and in her hair… 

Read this poem in its entirety here: http://leonliteraryreview.com/issue-10-katie-bowler-young/

2019 poetry alum Charles Douthat was recently featured in the LEON Literary Review. Read an excerpt of “Grounds” below:

Grounds

And after draining water pipes for winter
and latching shutters closed, after strapping
suitcases to the station wagon’s rack
and taking up a basement shovel 

I’d dig a foot-deep, yard-wide earth-hole 
downhill from our two-room mountain cabin,
then wait for my father and the grease-soaked
brown-paper bag of kitchen leavings

he’d carry down.  Ceremoniously
he would nod, release the uplifted bag,
and we’d watch it strike dirt and split apart,
spewing out meat gristle and banana peels,

chicken bones and eggshells. . . 

Read this poem in its entirety here: http://leonliteraryreview.com/issue-10-charles-douthat/

2006 poetry alum Idris Anderson was recently featured in the LEON Literary Review. Read an excerpt of “Blue Bear” below:

Blue Bear

It must be abstract but with colors,
green for the magnolia, yellow for the finches
in the white cage. Blue is the bear I stitched for you
from velour and buttons and leaned on the fence of your bed.

Already I’ve drifted into narrative
and particulars, the name of the bear I will tell you,
and the story of the stitching, the colors of zinnias tall
in your window. There are no screens between you and me

and the zinnias. I could touch them
from the chair where I sit by your bed
reading, opening the space in which you are dying,
all the world should come in, petals like paper arrows—

purple-red, pink, gold, sharp-raw
as the rasp of your breathing. Don’t die,
I’m thinking. Live so I can carry you back
to the beach, your house where I slept on the porch,

the sea pounding,
shells rattling in laps of waves,
so many in the turned-up hem of your shirt
pulled close to your heart, your small breasts

brooding metastasis.
Dying is what you wanted,
no measures, let alone extreme,
anything but this lingering drug-induced limbo.

Read this poem in its entirety here: http://leonliteraryreview.com/issue-10-idris-anderson/

Program founder and poetry faculty member Ellen Bryant Voigt was recently featured in Poetry Daily. Read an excerpt of Martin Mitchell’s reflection below:

Martin Mitchell on Ellen Bryant Voigt’s Messenger

In the first months of the pandemic, I found myself living in a borrowed house, beautiful and light-filled, with large granite countertops—a stately old structure ideally located near the center of a quaint, gothic city. Perfect for afternoon walks and evening drinks on the upstairs patio. Each night I would listen as the oak trees slowly filled with bird song and marvel at the languid persistence of the Spanish moss, glowing dimly above the lamp posts.

All I missed, really, besides friends and family, was my book collection, 500 miles and three states away. The house, having been renovated for weekend vacationers, had nothing in the way of reading material except for brochures of nearby tourist attractions. So, I ordered a few books from a local store.

It was in this way that I first encountered Ellen Bryant Voigt’s Messenger: New and Selected Poems 1976-2006a book that has anchored me amid the tumultuous uncertainty of the past eighteen months. Voigt’s poems are shorn of superfluity, each line shaved down to its essential, burning core. She is a poet of control and precision; across decades and amid differing poetical movements, Voigt is steadfast in her adherence to a clear-eyed iambic elegy…

Read the rest of this essay, as well as a poem of Voigt’s, here: https://poems.com/features/what-sparks-poetry/martin-mitchell-on-ellen-bryant-voigts-messenger/

Rose Auslander (Poetry ’15) was recently featured in Posit. Read an excerpt of Auslander’s poem “It” below:

It

better keep its hands
to itself, better not
slit your wrists &
say you did—no,

it won’t admit
trouble
sleeping, won’t look
in the mirror,
will hold
no dew, no
slow afternoons,
or home or tide
swirling or otherwise,
would rather explode—oh it
refuses to feel
the wind on its cheek,
mouth
hanging open
crying out, it
denies pain, my dear,
it will watch you
eat your heart
as if anyone
would know…

Read this poem in its entirety, as well as several others, here: https://positjournal.com/2021/09/27/rose-auslander/

Friends of Writers congratulates Reginald Dwayne Betts (poetry ’10) who has been selected to be a 2021 MacArthur Fellow. Betts received a BA (2009) from the University of Maryland, an MFA (2010) from Warren Wilson College, and a JD (2016) from Yale Law School. He is currently a PhD candidate in law at Yale Law School. Betts was appointed by President Barack Obama to the Coordinating Council of the Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention in 2012, and since 2018 he has served as a member of Connecticut’s Criminal Justice Commission, which appoints state prosecutors. His additional publications include the poetry collections Bastards of the Reagan Era (2015) and Shahid Reads His Own Palm (2010) and the memoir Question of Freedom: A Memoir of Learning, Survival, and Coming of Age in Prison (2009).

From the MacArthur website:

Reginald Dwayne Betts is a poet and lawyer promoting the rights and humanity of people who are or have been incarcerated. Betts’s work is informed by his experience with incarceration after being tried as an adult for a carjacking at the age of sixteen. As a practicing lawyer, Betts fights for clemency and parole for individuals facing lengthy sentences, and he is a member of local and national taskforces dedicated to ending cash bail, limiting sentence lengths, and prohibiting the practice of sending juveniles to adult prisons.

His poetry reflects both his legal training—particularly his deep engagement with scholarship on notions of guilt, punishment, and justice—and his command of craft. Throughout Felon (2019), his third collection, Betts inhabits multiple voices, making visible the entire spectrum of the criminal justice system. The opening poem, titled “Ghazal,” is written in the classical Arabic form of the same name, which is characterized by rhyming couplets that end with a repeated refrain. In this case, the refrain is “after prison,” and the speaker recounts the separation and loss that come with imprisonment and the struggle to rebuild a life as a convicted felon. “For a Bail Denied” depicts the fear and despair of a teenager, his mother, and his public defender in a hearing that results in his imprisonment. In a series of redaction poems, Betts uses source material from Civil Rights Corps lawsuits that challenge the imposition of cash bail and court fees. He blacks out the often obscure and sanitizing language of legal documents to lay bare the criminalization of poverty. Impoverished people, unable to pay traffic tickets or excessive bail, are jailed indefinitely in a modern-day version of debtor’s prison. In collaboration with artist Titus Kaphar, Betts created a series of prints of the redacted poems overlaying Kaphar’s portraits of the plaintiffs in the lawsuits. The resulting exhibition, Redaction (2019), was a powerful indictment of the human impact of cash bail. It addressed a community that rarely sees itself reflected back from the walls of museums.

Betts recently launched the nonprofit Freedom Reads to give incarcerated people access to the power of literature. Freedom Reads donates books and shelving for libraries, organizes author visits, and sets up book circles in prisons and juvenile detention facilities. Through his profoundly moving poems, public defense work, and advocacy efforts, Betts provides a unique perspective on the lifelong impacts of incarceration and the injustice of a criminal justice system that relies so heavily upon it.

The MacArthur Fellows Program awards unrestricted fellowships to talented individuals who have shown extraordinary originality and dedication in their creative pursuits and a marked capacity for self-direction.

Fiction alum Laura Hulthen Thomas was recently featured in FailBetter. Read an excerpt of “Stay Home, Stay Safe” below:

Stay Home, Stay Safe

Even before the stay-at-home order that spring, Jen’s latest pregnancy had threatened to lock her down. She’d thought stress and fatigue were bringing on her headaches, but her twenty-six week check-up revealed her blood pressure was high. If it continued to spike, she’d have to go on bedrest. She couldn’t very well deliver groceries from her mattress, she’d pointed out. Her doctor thought Jen was joking, but this little guy had exhausted her sense of humor. Now that the pandemic was forcing her to sit around most of the day helping the kids with remote schooling, it was harder to distract herself from the baby’s constant kicking. Her headaches were better, but he never settled down for a moment. What felt like perfect somersaults pushed acid up her throat every few minutes. Plus, she’d never stopped spotting after about week seven, when she’d braced for a miscarriage. So, maybe she had it backwards? Maybe her body was a danger to this baby, and here she was, some mother, blaming him for battling to be born.

To make it all worse, Michael, who was really Robert’s dog and barely gave Jen the time of day outside of mealtimes, had turned clingy since the lockdown. He’d leap in her lap while she helped the kids fill out the worksheets their teachers had assigned during the morning’s Zoom sessions. As she colored shapes with Daniel, formed letters with Rebekah, watched Rosemary work her algebra, since Jen couldn’t help out with any math more advanced than long division, Michael would plop his full Labrador weight on her knees and lick her silly. No amount of pushing him off and no, Michaels, and banishments to the back yard, where he promptly set to barking at the snotty neighbor woman with the unpronounceable last name, would make him leave her alone.

Maybe her stomach acid smelled like raw wieners.

Or maybe, she thought as she leaned in to guide Rebekah in a cursive h and Michael slathered a kiss, he was trying to get her to lighten up.

“Why does my name end in h?” Rebekah asked. “I can’t even hear it.”

Before Jen could answer, Rosemary looked up from a string of mysterious alphanumerics. “It’s Biblical.”

“Does the Bible say why we can’t hear it?”

Rosemary deadpanned, “Yes, it does.”

This from the daughter who’d declared herself an atheist last month. “Your sister is just kidding. I thought your name looked pretty with an h. An extra special something you don’t have to hear to know is there.”

“Like God. Which is Biblical.” With a quick glance back down at the problem, Rosemary easily solved for x.

“I can’t hear any h in God.” Daniel looked up from the triangles he was supposed to be coloring with primary shades. Burnt sienna wasn’t primary. Neither was raw umber. Would his teacher mark him down? Why were they giving kindergarteners marks, anyway, especially now?

“There isn’t, honey,” Jen told him. “What your sister means is that you don’t have to hear God to know He’s there. Like Rebekah’s h.”

“But you have to see Him, right?” Rebekah was outlining her name with a blue crayon. “I can see my h.”

Rosemary looked at her mother as if daring her to answer for faith on that one. “You just have to see Him once,” Jen answered. Without thinking, obviously. Rosemary’s brows shot up.

“If I draw Him then I can see Him.” Daniel grabbed the Crayon box.

Rebekah stared at her mother anxiously. “When will see Him, Mom?”

Michael snuggled against her belly. The pressure was calming the baby’s tumbles. For a brief moment, she didn’t feel sick, or panicked. She had no idea why she was being literal about God to her literal-minded young kids. Still, she said, “You will, honey. Everybody does, eventually.”

“But when?”

“Soon.”

Read the rest of this story here: https://www.failbetter.com/content/stay-home-stay-safe

2006 poetry alum Beverley Bie Brahic was recently featured in The New Criterion. Read an excerpt of Brahic’s poem “The Assumption of the Virgin” below:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The Assumption of the Virgin

August 15th. We’re a ghost town—just us
And the standoffish widow,
Her jangly terrier and vintage Peugeot.

Haven’t seen them street-side in—how long now?
But at bedtime
I see her television screen flicker

And these sultry nights with windows
Open to whatever is out there
Watching with us, and the neighborhood

Quiet as a grave, I can hear the sound—
A dialogue,
One voice quavers, the other threatens.

Read this poem in its entirety here: https://newcriterion.com/issues/2021/9/the-assumption-of-the-virgin