Contributions by Arlene Weiner

Theatre Review: Superior Donuts

By | Arlene Weiner, Prose, Reviews: Performing Arts

Superior Donuts. By Tracy Letts. Directed by Ted Pappas. Pittsburgh Public Theater, O’Reilly Theater. April 14 through May 15, 2011. With David Agranov, Sharon Brady, Donald Corren, Brandon Gill, Daryll Heysham, Joe Jackson, Wali Jamal, Antoinette LaVecchia, Anderson Mathews. Scenic Design by Michael Swhweikardt. Costume design by Amy Clark. Lighting design by Phil Monat. Sound …

Book Review: Burning of the Three Fires by Jeanne Marie Beaumont

By | Arlene Weiner, Book Review, Prose

Burning of the Three Fires Jeanne Marie Beaumont BOA Editions 2010. 96 pp. $16.00 Jeanne Marie Beaumont’s previous collection (BOA 2004) was called Curious Conduct, and curious this poet and her poetry are, in several senses. First, Beaumont is alert to various and sometimes obscure aspects of the world: arcane information from Wikipedia, art, etymologies, …

The White Book

By | Arlene Weiner, Book Review, Prose

Somewhere among my effects—my stuff, my junk—there is a small book with a white cover, stiff and warped. It’s not a Bible, and I’ve not read it very much. It’s a copy of poems by Tennyson. For the first twenty years of my life I lived in an apartment house in Manhattan, a five-story L-shaped …

These Self-Same Keys

By | Arlene Weiner, Book Review, Prose

Uttering a word is like striking a note on the keyboard of the imagination. — Ludwig Wittgenstein In the early 1980s I went to the Third Annual Conference on Computers and Writing. A well-known computer guru—can his name really have been Chip?—was the keynote speaker. Against expectation, he told us that across town they were …

A Courtship Dance with Damnation

By | Elizabeth Kirschner, Prose

Bones. Decapitations. The tip of the knife running down my jugular vein as if de-veining a shrimp. Bones, my bones, delicate as the spines of feathers, taped to paper, hung in old musty museums. The decapitation of my beloved, his face like that of an elephant gouged of its tusk, my fingers dabbing the blood …

My Life in the Theatre

By | Arlene Weiner, Prose, Reviews: Performing Arts

I’ve been trying to learn to write plays. It’s a craft, I know, not only an art. I’ve heard it said by someone in the theater that writing a play is like plumbing. I understood her to mean that things have to be connected up right or you have a spontaneous overflow of something you …

Issue 7 | Summer 2010

Downward

By | Poetry

Cold rain paves the path with gold leaves, calls to mind the future: fall of snow. Must every bright thing fall, all wither, freeze, erase our swept paths, our steps? How to become like the earth, that feels a fall as a drawing down, the way a lover’s face is drawn down? How to get …

No Window: Poetry, Memory, History

By | Arlene Weiner, Book Review, Prose

I recently returned from a trip to Greece, which has me thinking about Homer. Years ago I was astonished but convinced by the argument that the Iliad was not originally written, but was composed orally. Part of the evidence was gathered by Albert Lord, who journeyed through the Balkans and found men singing long traditional …