Aurum Foliatum [and other poems], by Aslan Cohen
September 30th, 2015 § Comments Off on Aurum Foliatum [and other poems], by Aslan Cohen § permalink
Aurum Foliatum
The blood of the leaf darkened and
clogged. It is now elegiac, subtle, brittle amber. Christ
stands cracked and blackened in the altarpiece.
The dry leaf is the theory
with which oil matures upon his body.
Time, quivering comet, travels
the resin. Wounds it in stelliform scars. Scorches it.
And the scorches have the smell of wood once smelled in the plum-tree.
When from those branches knees of bronze
unfastened and marked the ground
as battlefield
where still the wind comes and blows
like Resurrection’s afterthought.
Year-End Congratulations
June 18th, 2015 § Comments Off on Year-End Congratulations § permalink
A Note From the Chair
As the academic year draws to a close, it is time to celebrate the achievements of faculty, guest lecturers, staff, alumni and students. Below you will see what is probably only a sample of their impressive record of publication. Please let us know if we have omitted your achievements – it is important for us to record publications and prizes to encourage our new students, already signing up for next year’s courses. Although Will Boast will be on leave in Rome next year (collectively we struggle against our envy), we’ll be welcoming Chicu Reddy and Jen Scappettone back among us, and soon will announce an extraordinary lineup of events. Enjoy the summer!
John Wilkinson
Chair of Creative Writing » Read the rest of this entry «
QUIZ, by Brian Ng
January 21st, 2015 § Comments Off on QUIZ, by Brian Ng § permalink
Q: What would Jonathan Swift term dubstep?
A: A wail of a wub.
Q: What does an organized religion both aspire to and, distinctly, fear?
A: A hale of a hub.
Q: What part does theology play in such an aspiration?
A: A sail of a sub.
Q: What consolation does one resort to?
A: A pail of a pub.
Q: What is religion?
A: A nail of a nub.
Quarter-End Bulletin: Achievements and Opportunities in Creative Writing and Poetics
December 11th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink
A Note from the Chair
2014 was a year when Creative Writing welcomed new full-time faculty in fiction, when our small group of full-time and visiting faculty published a remarkable number of books and chapbooks from distinguished presses, across fiction, non-fiction and poetry; and when extraordinary graduate and undergraduate students also published collections of poetry. We continued to respond to ever-increasing demand for our courses. We saw increasing audiences for readings, especially those supported by our partners in the Logan Center and the Committee on Social Thought. And we completed a great administrative team. Congratulations and thanks to all. And more, much more follows.
John Wilkinson
Chair of Creative Writing » Read the rest of this entry «
WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT, by Brian Ng
November 25th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink
The wallet fell out before the taxi drove away as a
Carcanet of packets departed from one server to
Another while the century spun, shedding on us
Dull rain: conscious ephemera, a disturbance of flies.
Vehemence in deity or coalition dearth ensures.
Upon joyful spite all worldly blunder depends.
O optative art, – its slovenly soar, choirboys’ mouths
Drooling past pews of fading alms – access is denied.
Next up, revolutions mark umbra on the screen.
The sketches pile even as the marriage is annulled.
The office has ceased to be Euclidean. So, let hence
Be hence. In profile, the weaker eye is forgiven.
The Elves of Aokigahara, by Alex Filipowicz
November 19th, 2014 § Comments Off on The Elves of Aokigahara, by Alex Filipowicz § permalink
On the morning of her tenth birthday, Maisey’s height was four and a half centimeters. Her father, the village chief, had told her to stand against the old wooden ruler in the center of town, as custom dictated. Four and a half centimeters was a good height, he said. Not too tall.
Maisey spent most of the day playing in the moss patches with her friends. They ran up and down the twisted roots that encircled the village, throwing a prayer bead around and singing.
Hey bigfruit hey!
What will you bring for me today?
Hey bigfruit hey!
Fall down from that tree right away!
When they were all tuckered out, Arnold told Maisey he had actually seen a bigfruit once. Penelope said he was lying. Everybody knew that the trees in their grove never grew bigfruit. They didn’t have the right branches. » Read the rest of this entry «
Missed Connections, by Christopher Kempf
November 11th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink
Fifteen Feet From the Doorway, by Jenzo DuQue
November 11th, 2014 § 0 comments § permalink
When I smoke of my own volition,
my grandfather stands behind me—
his brittle palms on my shoulders,
birthing a scene I will never witness.
Through each rasp he swings his arms,
cutting air in dry arcs, with his poison so tender
that I can’t grasp how my father
could resist such a performance.
And how I, at the ripe age
of carefree, manage a sighing surrender
under the weight of our history.
I have half my father’s years,
but twice my father’s fears in my follicles.
His first job he cut his hand for three dollars and sixty jiffies,
still his boss wouldn’t sweat the damage.
Heal with it, he said.
In New York, Dad couldn’t read
but spoke a sentence the length
of his strides across the desert highway.
“Window seat, no-smoking.”
Even then, on a plane with no money
nicotine had its price.
Yet I’ve the entire English language at my disposal
and still no vocal chords.
Porcelain I’s dotted neat spill from my teeth,
I speak white
—beneath, my R’s are rolled,
my thighs are pulled pork; I can’t coagulate.
Only smoke puts my Indian knees at ease; I’m short of death,
Searching for words in this foreign tongue and ancestral breath.