Jennifer Acker's Blog, page 134
May 25, 2018
The Common @ the National Book Foundation’s Why Reading Matters Conference
Come watch The Common editors present at The National Book Foundation’s third annual Why Reading Matters conference on June 7 at St. Francis College in Brooklyn.
May 2018 Poetry Feature
CALLY CONAN-DAVIES & PETER JAY SHIPPY
The mummy unwound her bandages, inserted her organs, false eyes, and went out for a bite. They make lovely spinach gnocchi at Jimmy’s, she thought, and headed toward the river.
The mummy unwound her bandages, inserted her organs, false eyes, and went out for a bite. They make lovely spinach gnocchi at Jimmy’s, she thought, and headed toward the river.
May 23, 2018
Review: Garden for the Blind
Garden for the Blind is a more idiosyncratic book than one might realize after a cursory read, a provocative and unconventional meditation on privilege, fate, and the city of Detroit.
The Globe
SEAN GILL
You can sympathize with this feeling, this desire to hobble the murderers and their powerful symbols. It is unlikely that, in this moment, they were thinking of The Great Dictator.
You can sympathize with this feeling, this desire to hobble the murderers and their powerful symbols. It is unlikely that, in this moment, they were thinking of The Great Dictator.
May 20, 2018
On Noticing: an interview with Kirstin Allio
ISABEL MEYERS interviews KIRSTIN ALLIO
This phrase about being a “noticer” is cropping up everywhere lately. Maybe because we are all sort of skimming across our own lives, as if we were in a rush to get to the end, with a premium placed on productivity—including downtime gazing on some kind of screen-borne information.
This phrase about being a “noticer” is cropping up everywhere lately. Maybe because we are all sort of skimming across our own lives, as if we were in a rush to get to the end, with a premium placed on productivity—including downtime gazing on some kind of screen-borne information.
May 19, 2018
Bella Figura
JULIA LICHTBLAU
The best garden in Brooklyn is like Fred Astaire / Charming but inaccessible. / A private creation for public viewing. / I look down into it from my living room, / Its spilling vines and spruce hedge-tops lend cachet to my garden.
The best garden in Brooklyn is like Fred Astaire / Charming but inaccessible. / A private creation for public viewing. / I look down into it from my living room, / Its spilling vines and spruce hedge-tops lend cachet to my garden.
May 11, 2018
Digging Out Potatoes
BESIK KHARANAULI
I receive a letter from mother, / in which, / with a teacher’s stern tone, / she asks me to visit her. / I am busy with other tasks, / or simply prefer to go elsewhere— / to a parallel Georgia / with vineyards, / figs and chestnut trees. / But no, I have to dig out potatoes.
I receive a letter from mother, / in which, / with a teacher’s stern tone, / she asks me to visit her. / I am busy with other tasks, / or simply prefer to go elsewhere— / to a parallel Georgia / with vineyards, / figs and chestnut trees. / But no, I have to dig out potatoes.
May 9, 2018
Take Me With You
MARCIA DESANCTIS
I have fallen for a dog before, one whose face or spirit or gentle demeanor draws me in, but it was not like this. This time, it is instantaneous, maternal, and heavy with the twin aches of sympathy and empathy.
I have fallen for a dog before, one whose face or spirit or gentle demeanor draws me in, but it was not like this. This time, it is instantaneous, maternal, and heavy with the twin aches of sympathy and empathy.
April 30, 2018
Hydroambulante
KATE BERSON
First morning in Nueva York, in los EEUU, and Néstor in the kitchen was a stone his daughter rushed around like river water. Two years past her quinceañera, thirteen years since he last saw her. Néstor had kept running all the numbers in his head the whole way up to la Frontera.
First morning in Nueva York, in los EEUU, and Néstor in the kitchen was a stone his daughter rushed around like river water. Two years past her quinceañera, thirteen years since he last saw her. Néstor had kept running all the numbers in his head the whole way up to la Frontera.
The Shed
LIZ ARNOLD
In less than five minutes I’d ordered the autopsy report and the photos—five dollars each for six police photographs. I slid a forefinger into that one-inch window and cautiously lifted the envelope away from the contents. On the first letter-size page was the edge of an image: green grass.
In less than five minutes I’d ordered the autopsy report and the photos—five dollars each for six police photographs. I slid a forefinger into that one-inch window and cautiously lifted the envelope away from the contents. On the first letter-size page was the edge of an image: green grass.
