The Poetry of Elizabeth Bishop
by Mark BauerleinJonathan Post joins the podcast to discuss his new book, Elizabeth Bishop: A Very Short Introduction. Continue Reading »
Jonathan Post joins the podcast to discuss his new book, Elizabeth Bishop: A Very Short Introduction. Continue Reading »
The best place to read T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land—in order to commemorate its one hundredth anniversary this year—is the airport. Continue Reading »
Most of Kenneth Steven’s tales are simple, hardly worth the telling. But they’re the kind of tales that are the texture of life, like the stories we recount at the dinner table. Continue Reading »
That’s the way it goesfor amateurs and pros—the ball goes out of bounds.That’s the way it goes. That’s the way it goes,marching all in rows—someone’s Waterloo.That’s the way it goes. That’s the way it goes,the lily and the rose—their bloom begins to fade.That’s the . . . . Continue Reading »
Most Christians misunderstand the relationship of poetry to their faith. They consider it an admirable but minor aspect of religious practice—elegant verbal decoration in honor of the divine. They recognize poetry’s place in worship. Congregations need hymns, and the Psalms should be . . . . Continue Reading »
The Spiritual Canticle of San Juan de la Cruz—Saint John of the Cross—is treasure drawn from the darkness of a Toledo cell. Its popularity, from the sixteenth century to the present, testifies to the enduring appeal of its graceful, erotic mysticism. In a new translation of . . . . Continue Reading »
Cassandra Nelson’s “A Theology of Fiction” (April) is a welcome intervention and advance in an ongoing conversation that, as Nelson herself notes, I’ve been invested in for some time. Nelson’s attentiveness to the work of Sr. Mariella Gable—and her related readings of a series . . . . Continue Reading »
I had to squint to notice them. The linesthat bicker up to door jamb in the kitchen— a notch for every year, or half-a-year,depending on how much the kids had grown. A coat of paint is all it takes and ifit’s not like new, it’s good enough for now. Any sign they ever lived here is blotted . . . . Continue Reading »
Sixteen and a half with a brand new driver’slicense in my wallet, driving my father’s’47 two-toned old clunky Pontiac, I turnedleft off Hempstead Turnpike when a car swimsshark-like in front of me and I’m twistingthe steering wheel left right when somehowthe wheel takes over, spinning this . . . . Continue Reading »
On feet bare like a desert saint’s, it padsacross the porch and toward the dry cat foodmy wife pours out for strays. It doesn’t scarewhen I stomp, bellow, toss a pebbleat its rump, just hisses at me, geezerly,and keeps on chewing. Eyes like little radiodials and fur like coal snow, smog sky, or . . . . Continue Reading »