Tag: #Poetry

  • Prose Poetry Review: “Guns, Sex, Phones” by Katherine Schmidt

    (The prose poetry piece “Guns, Sex, Phones” by Katherine Schmidt appeared at Rejection Letters on October 16, 2025.)

    Image by Aaron Burch

    It’s been awhile since a work popped me on the nose, making me wake up and pay attention. “Guns, Sex, Phones” by Katherine Schmidt isn’t an angry or an aggressive poem, but it does confront the numb sedimentary routine that can creep in, and dominate one’s life.

    I was taken with the start of the piece; how the first line acted like an explosion, and then what followed were words that created contraction, as if the speaker was falling back into themselves, regressing. Look at that first line of the piece, “My friend says let’s go to the shooting range…” a statement to take action, but then the speaker pulls back, “and I tell her I don’t know anything about guns. About hunting. About how fun it is to let loose.” What follows are three examples of empty, disparate attempts at human connection; dinner with a phone, responding to a text on the toilet, not answering a call from their mother though the speaker watches the screen light up. It’s a good use of the “Rule of Three” and excellent at setting the theme and mood. When the choice is made to take action, to connect both physically and emotionally, an almost resignation takes over. The phone reenters the scene. Though the speaker makes a shallow attempt of connection with their friend via the phone, I can’t blame the friend for not watching the sent meme.

    This isn’t the first piece to decry the vapidness of smart phones, how they are destroying people’s ability to connect with others, or how technology can be alienating. What “Guns, Sex, Phones” touches on with a sharp melancholy focus is how lonely and emotionally trapped this world is becoming. There is no substitute for connection, actual human connection. That these connections need to be cultivated. And if we’re not careful with where we put our attention, we may lose the ability to grow further.

  • Short Story Review: “Poetry Is Not About the Price of Gasoline” by Amorak Huey

    (The flash fiction story “Poetry Is Not About the Price of Gasoline” by Amorak Huey appeared in Okay Donkey.)

    I am aware that I should know this, but sometimes I just am not sure what the difference is between absurdist literature and postmodern literature. Some of my favorite writers fall into one, or the other, or both of these categories. And I don’t want to get started about what makes something post-postmodernism or post-irony.

    So, what is “Poetry Is Not About the Price of Gasoline” by Amorak Huey? I guess you could define it with one of the above terms, but that feels like a pointless academic exercise. What the piece reminded me of was how many people see poetry as a useless commodity, while gasoline, especially the price of gas, commands an important space in their daily lives. This juxtaposition is humorous, though it does leave a bitter aftertaste in the realization how poetry is vastly undervalued. Not a revolutionary observation, but it is presented well here, especially with this wonderfully encapsulating line:

    “Which is to say this poem is nine-tenths of the way to being yours, with the final tenth of the process being determined by the rest of the laws, the ones written—like poems—out of language and granted meaning by our need to have shared words for how we interact with each other.”

    And then those baboons somehow got on that flight to LA.

  • Short Story Review: “Poor Houdini” by Anne Carson

    (The short story “Poor Houdini” by Anne Carson appeared in the January 29th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Lauren Peters-Collaer

    Well, yeah!

    “Poor Houdini” by Anne Carson is the type of short story I love falling into. Why beat around the bush here; This is a fabulous story that happily reminded me how much fun it is to be engaged and enthralled by the ways a writer takes words, and language and plays with it, creating mood, atmosphere, and a lyrical mist which surrounds their story. I wasn’t sure what I was getting into with that first paragraph, but by the end I was ashamed that I wasn’t aware Anne Carson before today.

    I guess there is a through line of a story here; a female poet, romantic entanglements, a crow, the rescue of a woman from a collapsed balcony, and the writing of sonnets. Picking apart this story seems antithetical to what this story exudes; which is a sort of lived life that is filtered through a poet’s eyes, and their reactions to those events. And these events can and should be explored more, but I only have so much time.

    Because what grabbed me was the language and how it danced to life. “There is stillness after rain. Rank risings rise. Trees drip. Street lamps loom. Night takes on a polish, a pure power.” I know this feeling, this setting, and it’s as if I can touch it with my fingertips, yet it stays magically elusive. Carson weaves these words, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of melancholy, as this is a world of people looking for connections with each other, but nothing seems to land the way they want or expect. But they keep moving forward, not exactly flailing, but grasping – at least the poet does.

    I know that I am not doing the story justice, and this isn’t so much a “review”, as it is more a “gush.” I think part of my reaction to “Poor Houdini” is that it also brought up in me the memory of being young, in college, and the world was still able to be discovered, emotions could be surprisingly new, and it mattered to attempt to create something out of that jumble of life. I can’t completely put my finger on it, but it felt very close to what Anne Carson wrote.

    Also if you enjoy this blog, please like it, subscribe to it, and tell your friends.

  • Personal Review: Bluets by Maggie Nelson

    First of all, I am having trouble with getting motivated to work on my projects this week. Taking time to examine art that has influenced me has been helpful.

    And as such…

    Back at the start of 2016, I was in a world of professional turmoil. I had been promoted to a senior leadership position in a theatre company/school that was in the process of a slow painful death, that most people in the company were in denial about. I was ambitious and thought I could save the company, but by April of that year, it was clear to me that nothing could be done to save it. I was captain of a sinking ship. And at this time, I started to realize that what I was doing to pay the bills, had come to dominate my life, and pull me a million miles away from all the reasons I had moved to New York City in the first place; I didn’t come to run a company, I had to come to artistically create.

    In this state of feeling lost, I read a profile on the author Maggie Nelson. The article was in support of The Argonauts which had just won a National Book Award. When I read the profile, I identified with Maggie Nelson’s love of reading, and a curiosity for artistic expression as well as self-examination, and well, examination of everything. There was also a deep honesty from Nelson that was at once shocking, and revealing of how easily I could be shocked by honesty. Half way through the article, I knew that I need to read that book.

    I went over to the Barnes & Noble in Union Square, and when I got to where her books were, they only carried one of her’s; Bluets. Better to have something by Nelson, rather than nothing. I bought the very slim, blue book that was supposed to be poetry, but on the back of the book was listed as essay.

    What I got from Bluets was what I had been looking for but could never put my finger on. The book read like someone sharing the thoughts that come in and out of their head. Not early 20th century stream of conscious, but more like thoughts from in my head, like a monologue for the audience of me. Thoughts come, develop, repeat with revision, and are funny, and also melancholy. I keep going back to Bluets often. I love the structure, and the idea of meditation by using words on a theme that has no answer or conclusion. Nelson’s writing for me is more than honest, but feels like a living thing. Insight that welcomes me to sit and ponder along with her.

    It’s funny how the right thing shows up when things are going wrong.  

  • Amanda Gorman; Poet Hero!

    Wow! Just Wow!

    Amanda Gorman is my new hero. I didn’t know America had a National Youth Poet Laureate, but after yesterday, I am really glad that we do.

    It has been a long time, a very long time, since I heard a poem recited that brought me to tears, let alone captured everything that I have been feeling about America, our shared culture, and our shared purpose. That anyone, regardless of age, can craft the correct words, is just amazing, and so needed! I didn’t know I needed Amanda Gorman, but I now see that I needed Amanda Gorman.

    And last night, as she was interviewed on TV, I was again struck by how passionate she is about poetry and reading, and the power of words. She was inspiring, and her joy was infectious. I was also struck by the amount of research she put in; reading past inaugural poems, speeches and addresses. The way she talked about doing that work made me believe that she loved her process of creation.

    One last thing about her; I was captivated by her performance in reading her poem. The way she used her hands in conjunction with the inflection she put on her words. The rhythm of the poem, her posture, and the power in her voice, created a confluence of energy that electrified her performance.

    Just amazing.