Letters & Essays
Art & Photography
In a new comic by M. Dean, a girl drops acid and rides the waves of music all the way through prom.
In our column Poetry Rx, readers write in with a specific emotion, and our resident poets take turns prescribing the perfect poems to match. This week, Kaveh Akbar is on the line.
Then, blue heron sky. Then, green exists. Then, whisps of lapping clouds. Then, there are no words for the color of the clouds. Then, the branches, the tall blades of grass. Then, form exists. Then, light. Then, real morning. Good morning.
Our monthly column Feminize Your Canon explores the lives of underrated and underread female authors.
“People loved to talk about how Frank O’Hara didn’t really care about getting published. That doesn’t jibe with my experience.”
Is there a poem for feeling helpless during the onslaught of the endless news cycles?
Cooking up recipes drawn from the works of various writers.
These things happened at a time when that noble virtue, frivolity, still flourished, when today’s relentless struggle for existence was yet unknown. The faces of the young aristocrats and squires were not darkened by any cloud; at court the maids of honour and the great courtesans always wore a smile on their lips; the occupations of clown and professional teahouse wit were held in high esteem; life was peaceful and full of joy. In the theater and in the writings of the time, beauty and power were portrayed as inseparable.
I’m not sure who my double really is. He began long ago when I started putting the name Hiram Handspring on comical parody pieces in the New Directions annuals. A clown, harmless fellow. But now I think he has become rather sinister.