Clark’s poetry collection questions how those excluded from spoken conversation devise new avenues for transmission.
The best poets tend to trouble conventions, including those they find necessary.
"One of the things that is interesting about Keats' letters to Fanny Brawne is that you can't infer a damn thing that’s happened between them."
Three new poetry collections depart on a cosmic journey to reckon with ecology and our relations to a suffering earth.
Maria Dahvana Headley’s translation of “Beowulf” forces us to think about what we need to be true about the past, and our access to it.
“We have to witness everything… You don't do it by yourself. That mode of looking is not like any individual feat; it is a feat of joining.”
Amid this turbulent present, can poetry call attention to creative forms of survival and persistence, human and nonhuman?
If memory is an unreliable narrator, how can it be the medium through which we arrive at the truth about ourselves?
“There is nothing supreme about being white.”
The revelrous, rebellious writing of Hejinian—arguably our foremost poet-critic—works against our sense of psychological and political isolation.
The dead, the disappeared, and the forgotten—these Iberian poems make clear—can never be safely put away.
These poems undo the cultural invisibility of America’s Native Nations. They also, with unique abundance, secure the value of poetry itself.
Why would Dante need help? Because if the poet’s only readers are Dante scholars, then we’ll all lose out. Dante deserves better, and so do we.
For poet Honorée Fanonne Jeffers, as for the Black Romantics, history is the repetition of anti-Black violence that has yet to be abolished.
What happens when we dismantle the monumental status of a figure like Shakespeare in the canon? What other voices rise to describe the world?
A recent flourishing of Palestinian literature reckons with complications in historical memory caused by settler colonialism.
I am tired of catalogues and catalogue poems, and of surveys and surveillance—though I appreciate a bird’s-eye view of the terrain as well as anyone.
Three recent poetry collections have cemented the rise of what we might call the “metalyrical”: poetry that interrogates the conditions of its own expression.
By making familiar objects strange, two new books of poetry reveal the limits of overly simple critique.
How do black feminist artists negotiate their own work in the wake of commercial success beyond contemporary poetry’s wildest dreams?