Read A Little Poetry | Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life? ― Mary Oliver Monkeybicycle: Literary Goodness Jon Defreest's Illustration & Graphic Design Portfolio jellyfish eleven :: DON'T STOP BBC iPlayer - TS Eliot's India: Many Gods, Many Voices Current Issue | Magazine Dana Spiotta and Rachel Kushner mine our artistic and political history in a way that few contemporary novelists do. They are the descendents of DeLillo and Didion, but each has struck out on her own to stake claim on new fictional ground. Both writers’ work is characterized by their sharpness of language and their precise emotional registers, as well as their ambitious, politically charged themes. Spiotta is the author of three novels, Lightning Field, Eat the Document (a finalist for the National Book Award), and Stone Arabia (a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award). Kushner is the author of two novels, Telex from Cuba and The Flamethrowers, both of which were finalists for the National Book Award. Last fall, Kushner ventured east from her Los Angeles home and taught a seminar on Proust at Syracuse University, where Spiotta is on the faculty. —Rob Spillman Dana Spiotta: Can you describe your writing process? DS: Can you tell me about your early writing?
We Made This Ltd We Made This Work Print Photography Branding Writing Books Archive BigTruths World Poetry Portfolio #29: Anastassis Vistonitis | [wpcol_1quarter id="" class="" style=""] Anastassis Vistonitis Anastassis Vistonitis was born in Komotini, Northern Greece, in 1952. He studied Political Sciences and Economics in Athens. Translated from the Greek by David Connolly The first in the wood The wood is a green flag that unveils night’s fires along the shaded paths, as the song leaps from the inferno of their eyes. Freedom – a volcano spouting unrestrained cries and gunshots. The nightingales’ terror fills the night with sounds from the chestnuts. falls silent in the woodlands. In the town the torturers clutch hold of the bolted-up mice. My knife the harp of death. I pin the light on the branches at midday. From out of their mouths fly hungry hawks. The unsaddled horses bolt off to the peaks, from out of the sky fall coins and bloated kings. In my heart the night plants a plane tree of granite. The second in jail My horse flies through the gorges chasing the morning bells. Pale women beneath the moon slip on the river’s bank. nail shut their windows. o
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