Harold Bloom, who died in October at age eighty-nine, was The Last Great American Literary Critic. The Sterling Professor of Humanities at Yale, he wrote best sellers, appeared on talk shows, and collected honorary doctorates like lint. Bloom championed the Western Canon against its critics, . . . . Continue Reading »
This gold and paint on board, the fillet in her hair—I see resemblance, yes, a slantways glimpse of her Though she is gone away—it was not made from life,For no one is so blithe to pain, as if a laugh Were trembling on her lips, as if the fur like grassAlong the dragon’s jaw were just . . . . Continue Reading »
I chose a bench where I could read AugustineAs one may do beside construction sites.Late February, sunny, bitter, windy.I settled down to read,and sometimes I would look acrossto watch the crew at work—the heavy blockshoisted into their places by the cranes,while men took care to guide each to . . . . Continue Reading »
The Christmas angel in the window,a headless, legless mutilation,stands propped by a steel rod. She’s encased in tulle’s graceof white netting, goose feathers,and golden papier-mâché wings. Spray painted mannequin, hersilver skin will never knowthe feel of flesh. We can imagine how she fell . . . . Continue Reading »
After Jacob of Serug Blessed are you, O Maiden; blest The fruit which dwells within your womb,Beloved in that holy rest Whose secret comes to sacred bloom.And blessed is this virgin birth Which shall uproot sin from the earth. Who grants this . . . . Continue Reading »
If autumn is the poets’ favorite season, it is because autumn catches us in between, regretting and hoping, seeing the seed fall and imagining its growth. Continue Reading »
Let us go then, up the long stairs and down the hall,Through rooms in which a storm of air electrical Takes hold, and windows fill with light that strips awayThe darkness, . . . . Continue Reading »
“What we call the beginning is often the endAnd to make an end is to make a beginning.The end is where we start from.” —T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets (“Little Gidding”) The end is where we start from. This last choreOf Autumn must be . . . . Continue Reading »
Maryann Corbett’s latest collection of poetry presents readers with a pedestrian’s perspective on the world, revealing just how assiduously a poet is always paying attention. Continue Reading »
A. M. Juster interviews Maryann Corbett on the process and inspiration behind her poetry. Continue Reading »
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