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From the archive: 9/11/2008 (by Stacey Harwood)
My office is in a building adjacent to Ground Zero. The ceremonies are about to begin. The ramp at the far end of the pit is lined with flags of the victims' homelands. Otherwise,…
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September 11 [by Lera Auerbach]
September 11th Can you breathe this air,this thickening air? The ashes of people are in our nostrils. Can you hear this silence?this screaming silence? The ashes of people are in our throats.…
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On Local Rows [by Julia Shipley]
Over a decade ago, I moved to Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, an area composed of three sparsely populated counties in the topmost rightside portion of this long skinny state. I lived alone. I went to…
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How I Read the Best American Poetry [by Stacey Harwood]
I get my first glimpse of the year’s Best American Poetry when a box of the uncorrected proofs arrives. Years ago, the covers were the color I call “galley blue”; more recently the publisher…
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One Year [by Alan Ziegler]
This week marks my first anniversary as a regular contributor to The Best American Poetry (after an earlier stint as a guest author). I want to offer my thanks, huzzahs, and kudos to Stacey…
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Molly Arden translates Catullus # 25
Catullus # 25 Thallus, you lech: softer than fur of rabbit,down of goose, flap of ear: your cock and sack of nutsthat dangle from your old man crotch, festoonedwith cobwebs, and still you’re as…
