Blog Archives

The Art of Loneliness is The Heart of Poetry

By | Elizabeth Kirschner, Prose

At first I wrote: the art of loneliness is the art of poetry. Then art became heart. I am a solo singer hoping to be a singular singer in a silent choir. Rilke once wrote that a marriage was about two solitudes bordering each other. I once thought that of my own marriage until I …

Root of Language

By | Prose

Like any poet, I think a lot about language. It’s a way to connect with the physical world, but also to lift out of it. It’s abstract, but its source is concrete — the letters of our alphabet are based on a set of pictograms, stylized pictures used for words. Egyptian hieroglyphs, Mayan glyphs, and cuneiform …

The Lit Lyric

By | Elizabeth Kirschner, Prose

Someone once said that writing a poem meant riding upon the pulse. It is a cataclysmic happening with all the synapses firing at once. In order to achieve the lyric poem, one must build a sky bridge, be connected to deep red earth and moody, bluesy stars. Create a cosmos and step into it. Get …

With This Feast, We Could…Go…All…the…Way

By | Prose

Knee-deep in football season and cool weather, and I’m ready to tackle cooking some hearty and homemade junk food. But with so many options, where’s a girl start? Chili? Nachos? Chips and dip? Potato skins? Quesadillas? And that doesn’t even begin to touch on tailgate-food like ribs and burgers and sausages and… All right. This …

Ernie Types a Poem


The Gift


I am the bee who clings with dew- tipped legs to the soft crowns of purple clover, the stupid happiness inside the blasted bud, an entanglement of clouds smitten with love-stricken light that is here, there, everywhere. Sun’s gold load, the dance inside the perfectly still great blue heron and the prostration of rain- battered …


By | Poetics, Prose, Susan Kelly-DeWitt

I keep returning to that moment, that first Tuesday afternoon, the door with its frosted pane. It swings open suddenly, pulled back into the dusky hallway, and Denise sails in, salt and pepper curls wind-tossed. It reminds me of the course my life is about to take, a change from the routine academia I had …



I was struck first by the ways this poet built his poems from the detritus of contemporary life: Cheetos, Hollywood trash, Vaseline.  As I read closer, though, I discovered it was not the things, but the people he meant to hold up to the light.  In nearly every poem you’ll find images of the body …