We walked the dogs this morning.
The long walk we call it:
Where the path splits, go to the right,
Up and down the hills to the lake,
Then turn left. They know the way home.
Early spring. Our breathing
Wraps around our heads,
And we shuffle through
The crisp remains
Of last year’s autumn.
My favorite season, once.
I loved the slant of light, the cool smell of trees
Mixed with notes of books both old and new.
The play’s universal themes rest on a Christian eschatological vision.
More precisely, the Hebrew is Havel: a breath. His life,
as short and ephemeral as an exhale. Don’t ask
if he was a boy scout, or if some lass from God-knows-
where had her sky blue eyes on him; he was
rubbed out, bumped off, smoked.
His brother, like David after Uriah, tried to Houdini himself
out of blame, thinking murder happened in a vacuum—
both thinking their victims wouldn’t be missed any more
than the sheep they kept.
Havel’s blood cries from the ground because he cannot.
Akwaeke Emezi’s stunning novel will leave you broken. It will also let the air back into your lungs.
Fikos is the pseudonym of a Greek street artist who in normal times would be up a ladder with a brush painting public murals. Working indoors during the pandemic, he created this tempera on paper on panel painting in what he calls a “Contemporary Byzantine” style, showing Jesus teaching his disciples the ultimate lesson in humility.
The small bright squares of face instead of chairs
encircling their ideas in classrooms
we once inhabited, our bodies there
attached to mind and chalk. But now there’s Zoom
shrinking the snores or grins to sticker-size—
“thumbs-up,” “applause,” the new epiphany.
And yet, within this safest compromise,
ideas ricochet, insights split sky;
tech heavens open, knowledge tumbles in.
The space has changed; the will to learn remains.
Welcome young Angelous and Ellisons,
Baldwins, Alexies, Frosts, Poes, Plaths, and Cranes.
Poetry that continues the rich literary tradition of angels and offers a new, illuminating perspective
When words fail, the church sings—especially on Trinity Sunday.
What happens when a genre series is detached from its White colonialist context?