A feature from Issue 61, “Best of the South” 2008. Thick strokes of early-evening crimson smeared across the rolling mountains of Rabun County as I drove up Highway 23 from Atlanta toward Clayton. The whole world looked like it was… by Bronwen Dickey | Jan, 2017

These photographs are fragments from William Price Glaser’s unwritten novel; moments he’s imagined (then found) during his time in the South. by William Price Glaser | Feb, 2017

When CeDell Davis was a boy, his mother told him he would go to hell if he kept on playing the guitar and messing around with the devil’s music. Davis was born in the Delta town of Helena in 1926,… by David Ramsey | Feb, 2017

We were in the garden of refugees, Eh Kaw explained: what was his, as well as Semoeneh’s, was also mine. Their Baptist faith compelled them to share whatever bounty God bestowed. Eh Kaw felt blessed that he and dozens of… by André Gallant | Jan, 2017

TO SUPPORT THE WRITING OF A DEBUT BOOK OF CREATIVE NONFICTION Final Judges Brian Blanchfield, Bronwen Dickey, and Ada Limón Fellow will receive a $10,000 living stipend, housing, and an editorial apprenticeship with the Oxford American toward a nine-month residency in the… by | Jan, 2017

Daddy’s truck was one of those places—like a grandmother’s house, a real and actual soul food restaurant, or a barbershop owned by an older black man who guards the radio by silent threat of the revolver in his drawer next… by Zandria F. Robinson | Dec, 2016

I’ve spent a lot of time recently listening to Bob Dylan’s second album. Not Freewheelin’, the LP with him and Suze Rotolo on the cover and “Blowin’ in the Wind” in the grooves. That’s the one we know, because a… by Elijah Wald | Dec, 2016

A story from our 18th Southern Music Issue: Visions of the Blues. All day long the song has kept him thinking, a few clumsy lines scribbled on hotel stationery like black rivers rushing across the page. What imposters his words… by Jeffery Renard Allen | Jan, 2017

One of my tasks as curator of the Alan Lomax Archive is to manage its YouTube channel. Several years ago, I noticed a particular strain of commentary recurring on the five clips that compose the recorded output of an utterly… by Nathan Salsburg | Jan, 2017

Certain sections of our border wall have become bi-national art spaces. Politicians plaster campaign posters; immigrants inscribe their names, home villages, and dates of crossing. Muralists and graffiti artists layer image upon image. by Stephanie Elizondo Griest | Apr, 2015

I couldn’t quite figure out why Japanese listeners had come to appreciate and savor the blues in the way that they seemed to—lavishly, devotedly. Blues is still an outlier genre in Japan, but it’s revered, topical, present. by Amanda Petrusich | Jan, 2017

September 21, 2016

An excerpt of The Home Place: Memoirs of a Colored Man’s Love Affair with Nature.

I grew up in the southwestern frontier near North Augusta, on a ragged, two-hundred-acre family farm where we raised our own beef, grew our own vegetables, and drew our water out of cool, sweet springs. From heaven—or from a high-flying hawk’s viewpoint—I imagine that the plowed fields, pastures, and humble houses looked like a hole punched into the expanse of green. That gap in the wildness was our Home Place.

August 30, 2016

My mother was an instinctive cook. Words and directions did not hold much for her. She was a keen observer. She learned to cook from watching her aunts; her grandmother, Maw; her own mother. She loved recipes. Clipped them from the newspaper, kept them crammed in cookbooks and stuffed in bowls around the kitchen. She read them like fiction, intrigued by the possibilities they suggested, but hardly foolish enough to take them as literal instructions for real life.

March 11, 2016

A conversation with Barry Moser.

My relationship with my brother has haunted me all my life. When I see or read stories of brotherhood, the experience takes me into a state of reverie—a place of wondering what might have been, what could have been. That always makes sad, and I usually weep.

 

February 03, 2016

A conversation with Chris Offutt. 

This objectivity created distance in myself from everything—a distance from my own existence—which was essential in order to confront this material every day, the constant barrage of pornographic depictions.