Poetry Commons^™

Winter, Jacquline Crist

Manuscripts

No abstract provided.

The November Persecutions Of 1938, Anastasia Schwarzleder

Manuscripts

The month of November, 1938, had started on a dreary note in Berlin; it had been raining for several days; the skies were dark and clouded.

On the fifth, my father's younger brother had left Germany with his family and his orchestra. Of Course, we were glad to see him get out of the infernal country, yet we felt sad at seeing a near relative leave us. Now, besides us, my grandparents and my father's older brother were the only members of our large family still in Berlin.

Land Of Zion Reborn And Hebrew Revived, Raymond Y. Sussman

Manuscripts

SCENE I - IN THE FIELDS

Spring. The Palestine countryside begins to bloom. Plants begin to grow, and the leaves on the trees start to turn green again. In the flelds the farmers begin to plow the dark, rich earth. The farm helpers sit behind the plows, or scatter the stones or spread the seeds. And as they work they sing together: "Shuru, habitu ur'u, rna gadol hayom hazeh, esh yokedet bachazeh, v'harnachraisha shuv polachat basadeh. Et, ina koosh tooriah v'kilshon, hit lakdu b's'arah, v'nad- Iika shuv, shuv et ha-adama, b'shalhevet y'ruka." ("How great is this day! The heart glows …

The Thicket, Joan Hayden

Manuscripts

As I scuff through the fallen leaves these days, I find my thoughts turning constantly to The Thicket, my former home in southern Indiana. Autumn will be arriving there, too, and I wonder what it must be like there now. Indian summer must bring dreams to the old place of all the years that have gone, and of the seasons past now. I wonder if it will ever be spring there again?

The Heart Of America, Eileen Hoover

Manuscripts

Do not allow Pete to deceive you with his modern ideas and speeches. He is really quite a character from out of the old world with all his old-fashioned ways.

Italy can boast of the birth of one Peter Galbo about half a century ago. Having been reared there until he was eighteen years old, Pete to this day has the dialect and mannerisms of a true Italian. Surprising, yet true, Pete's ancestry has never caused him to be partial to his native land. America has never had any truer immigrant. Pete expresses his greatest pride when he steps into …

The Girl With The Tan Hair, Jean Pittenger

Manuscripts

I was the long desired baby sister with the "tan" hair. My brother, who was six years old at the time of my birth, had ordered me specially. Because he greatly admired the blond baby sister of one of his boy friends, he made numerous and serious appeals and accepted my arrival with the same enthusiasm as he had displayed when given his highly-prized, red tricycle. Although most people called me a "towhead," Bob still considered me his little sister with the "tan" hair.

Fantasies Of The Night, Lena Willkie

Manuscripts

Night reached greedy fingers across a leaden sky. In the west, a sullen November sunset faded into a melancholy gray. Naked trees swayed and bent and moaned under the whiplash of a winter wind. Leaves whirled and fell in a lifeless dance. Dull, brown, untidy lawns darkened in the fading light.

Mariclon's Cove, Mary Alice Kessler

Manuscripts

It was a bright, brisk day. The foaming sea crashed gaily against shining rocks. The wind blew high and strong. My hair was torn back from my face; my wet face, so clean and free. I was free. The wind and the sea and I were free .. free .. free. Life had thrown me into a tossing, black-green world. A windy spray-world of clouds and burning sun and screaming gulls. My wet dungarees clung to my legs and I tasted the salt of a day at sea.

The Banker, Doris Daley

Manuscripts

Sylvester scowled at the traffic light because it was detaining him for a valuable moment or two; even though he could have crossed safely, he waited because that is the law. When the light changed, he hurried 'across the street with others who had eight o'clock appointments with destiny, and, just as he did every morning, looked in all the smart shop windows.

The Spot Of Ink, Lucy Kaufman

Manuscripts

Looking away from his book, Peter stared at the hard hot brightness of the one Iighted lamp. He liked the yellow compact circle of light thrown from the unshaded bulb, for although it was adequate for reading, it was too small to illuminate the room. For a long time, almost it seemed, from the time of his first coherent thought, he had wanted to burst the bonds which chained him to the room. And each night he read to forget the soiled cracked wallpaper and the thick film of dust which smudged the window panes and slid along the edges …

"Saturday's Child Has Far To Go", Mary Elizabeth Black

Manuscripts

The courthouse square of our town is always crowded on summer Saturday nights. Cars are wedged neatly around the four sides of the square in every available parking place, the shops and groceries are ablaze with lights, and horns honk wildly as little children dash across the streets to join their friends in playing tag on the courthouse lawn. As one makes one's way through the crowd, women with bundles of all sizes and shapes and grocery bags with celery peeping out of the tops jostle one from all sides. Farmers dressed in faded overalls and toddlers licking ice cream …

Lucifer And The Light Lady, Joy Higdon

Manuscripts

Lucifer was a very young lightning bug, but although he was very young, he knew his way around. All the lady lightning bugs were acquainted with Lucifer and they were fond of him.

An Afternoon, Mary Chappell

Manuscripts

Now the cab was leaving the downtown area and was entering the residential district. I sat forward in my seat and looked out the window. Apparently this was not a fashionable neighborhood, but middle class and decaying. I had never been there before and looked at the big, dirty frame houses, old, stone churches with dead ivy clinging to them, and maples, bare of their leaves and dripping in the rain.

The Meetin', Robert Cornett

Manuscripts

The folks in the little meetin' house was beginnin' to git the sperrit. The meetin' was gain' along just like the Lord would want it to go. It was hot in that little one-room buildin' settin' there on the side of the mountain, but nobody cared about that. Fact is, folks had to be a little too warm to really git the sperrit.

Front Matter

Manuscripts

No abstract provided.

Transferential Poetics, From Poe To Warhol, Adam Frank

Literature

Transferential Poetics presents a method for bringing theories of affect to the study of poetics. Informed by the thinking of Silvan Tomkins, Melanie Klein, and Wilfred Bion, it offers new interpretations of the poetics of four major American artists: Edgar Allan Poe, Henry James, Gertrude Stein, and Andy Warhol. The author emphasizes the close, reflexive attention each of these artists pays to the transfer of feeling between text and reader, or composition and audience— their transferential poetics. The book’s historical route from Poe to Warhol culminates in television, a technology and cultural form that makes affect distinctly available to perception. …

Each Moment A Poem, Sarah Kidd

Honors Theses

Each Moment a Poem is a collection of 10 poems spanning 20 pages. The poems were written in 2014 under the mentorship of Dr. Richard Katrovas, my poetry professor, and Ms. Kimberly Kolbe, the managing editor of New Issues Press, where I was granted an internship. When 2014 began, I adopted the philosophy that each moment has the potential to become a poem, that stories can be told concisely and vividly through poetry. The poems in this collection explain and explore important moments I have experienced while awake and asleep. The poems are lucidly written in a free verse narrative …

Two Poems, John Delaney

Ontario Review

JOHN DELANEY, a graduate student at Syracuse University, has published poetry in Poetry Northwest, The Hollins Critic, The Christian Science Monitor, and elsewhere.

Two Poems, Theresa Kishkan

Ontario Review

THERESA KISHKAN of Victoria, B.C. has published three collections of poetry, the most recent being Premonitions and Gifts.

Three Poems, John Ditsky

Ontario Review

JOHN DITSKY, a former contributor, has published in many North American journals. He is Professor of English at the University of Windsor.