Jennifer Acker's Blog, page 83
March 11, 2021
The Old Man of Kusumpur
AMAR MITRA
Fakirchand of Kusumpur set out on his way to meet the Big Man. A bundle of meagre belongings hung on his back from one end of a cane stick that rested on his shoulder. Old Fakirchand walked with a slight stoop. It was moments before sunrise, and the March morning was soft and cool with a genial air and the earth still pleasant to walk on.
Fakirchand of Kusumpur set out on his way to meet the Big Man. A bundle of meagre belongings hung on his back from one end of a cane stick that rested on his shoulder. Old Fakirchand walked with a slight stoop. It was moments before sunrise, and the March morning was soft and cool with a genial air and the earth still pleasant to walk on.
March 10, 2021
Writers on Writing: Frances Richey
FRANCES RICHEY
Once I have enough work to envision a collection, I lay the poems out on the floor, and put them in an initial order. It’s my intent to start with a poem that carries the themes of the book. I think of a collection as a universe unto itself, just as a poem is a particular universe.
Once I have enough work to envision a collection, I lay the poems out on the floor, and put them in an initial order. It’s my intent to start with a poem that carries the themes of the book. I think of a collection as a universe unto itself, just as a poem is a particular universe.
March 9, 2021
Mother’s Tongue
JENNIFER SHYUE
I thought to confirm this fact with my mother. She said, the expressive brows I inherited perplexed: “No, your first language was English.” Yesterday, I asked my mother the question again, at a slant: What was my first word? Her brow bunched. “I don’t remember,” she said apologetically. “Probably ‘ma ma’?” “What language is that?” I asked. She smiled.
I thought to confirm this fact with my mother. She said, the expressive brows I inherited perplexed: “No, your first language was English.” Yesterday, I asked my mother the question again, at a slant: What was my first word? Her brow bunched. “I don’t remember,” she said apologetically. “Probably ‘ma ma’?” “What language is that?” I asked. She smiled.
March 5, 2021
Friday Reads: March 2021
ISABEL MEYERS
Here in Western Massachusetts, the harsh New England winter is gradually thawing, and our greyish snowbanks are melting into puddles. Meanwhile, our interns have returned to their spring semester classes and their work at The Common.
Here in Western Massachusetts, the harsh New England winter is gradually thawing, and our greyish snowbanks are melting into puddles. Meanwhile, our interns have returned to their spring semester classes and their work at The Common.
March 3, 2021
Ephemeral Address
JAMES ALAN GILL
There is no noise. It’s an adjustment from living in the city where quiet included police helicopters, fire engines, and sports cars speedshifting down Indian School Road. Stars fill the sky again.
There is no noise. It’s an adjustment from living in the city where quiet included police helicopters, fire engines, and sports cars speedshifting down Indian School Road. Stars fill the sky again.
February 26, 2021
Podcast: Bina Shah on “Weeds and Flowers”
BINA SHAH
Bina Shah speaks to managing editor Emily Everett about her short story “Weeds and Flowers,” which appears in Issue 19 of The Common magazine.
Bina Shah speaks to managing editor Emily Everett about her short story “Weeds and Flowers,” which appears in Issue 19 of The Common magazine.
2021 Festival of Debut Authors
On March 25th at 7:00pm, in honor of ten years of publishing and cultivating new voices, please join The Common‘s special events team for an evening devoted to emerging talents! Celebrate with poets and prose writers Ama Codjoe, Sara Elkamel, LaToya Faulk, Ben Shattuck, Angela Qian, and Ghassan Zeineddine. This event will take place virtually via
February 25, 2021
February 2021 Poetry Feature
REBECCA MORGAN FRANK
Dug down to the head / and roped the body up, / chucked jewels back to dirt, little interest / in mementos, only / the corpses themselves. / That’s how we learned our bodies had a life / on their own, a worth / without us.
Dug down to the head / and roped the body up, / chucked jewels back to dirt, little interest / in mementos, only / the corpses themselves. / That’s how we learned our bodies had a life / on their own, a worth / without us.
February 24, 2021
Delusions of Grandeur
A. NATASHA JOUKOVSKY
There is something post-decadent about Versailles in winter. The fountains are off; there are not many tourists. Everything is still fiercely geometric and over-the-top, but in this gray, expired kind of way, at least for most of the day.
There is something post-decadent about Versailles in winter. The fountains are off; there are not many tourists. Everything is still fiercely geometric and over-the-top, but in this gray, expired kind of way, at least for most of the day.
February 23, 2021
LitFest 2021 Excerpt: A Burning
MEGHA MAJUMDAR
I ought to have seen the men who ran up to the open windows and threw flaming torches into the halted train. But all I saw was carriages, burning, their doors locked from the outside and dangerously hot.
I ought to have seen the men who ran up to the open windows and threw flaming torches into the halted train. But all I saw was carriages, burning, their doors locked from the outside and dangerously hot.
