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

January 11, 2017

Atget, Modotti, Weston, Stieglitz, Avedon, Karsh, Brassaï, Bresson, Ulmann. Jim would hand the books to me with no explanation, no bias of who was who and why and what the world already thought of the work. He told me only to put paper clips on the pages holding photographs that “found something in me.”

January 11, 2017

A profile from the Oxford American’s 25th issue, 1999.

Christenberry is not simply a visual artist who reveres writers, especially Southern ones, his artistic vocabulary is directly shaped by them. His largest theme, like that of many novelists, is time, and he has a poet’s sureness of imagery and tone. He is perhaps the South’s most literary artist.

December 06, 2016

I live five miles from where the Hawk’s Nest Tunnel tragedy unfolded, along the New River Gorge in Fayette County. Hawk’s Nest is an extreme in a class of extremes—the disaster where truly nothing seemed to survive, even in memory—and I have made a home in its catacombs. The historical record is disgracefully neglectful of the event, and only a handful of the workers’ names were ever made known. What’s more, any understanding of Hawk’s Nest involves the discomfort of the acute race divide in West Virginia, seldom acknowledged or discussed. Indeed, race is still downplayed in official accounts. Disaster binds our people, maybe. But what if you’re one of those deemed unworthy of memory?

October 28, 2016
A poem from the Fall 2016 issue. 
 
What are the details I’ve left out? That I’m not
 
poor. That I’ve never had to buy food
at the Dollar Store at the end of the month.
 
That I’m relentlessly straightforward lately,
which has to do with my need to tell you
 
exactly what happened, because what happened
is so unclear.
October 27, 2016

A poem from the Fall 2016 issue.

I’ve seen enough of your creation, Lord,
its absurd conceits, the sins of idle men
ripened to gnashing teeth.
October 26, 2016

A poem from the Fall 2016 issue.

Kid comes to see me during office hours, and he says he has
a weekend job at a gas station, and one Saturday, two girls
from French class come by and ask him if he wants to go
October 25, 2016

A poem from the Fall 2016 issue. 

I stand before the little square history
of my cutting board: beet stain, parsley
mark, garlic in the grain that infuses

anything cut open, left soft-side down.
July 19, 2016

Poetry from the Summer 2016 issue. 

We are at the edge of the madness,
sitting and swelling warm under the skin.
So you think that shuffling and press
of bodies against the fence will end?
July 12, 2016

Contemporary fiction writers can play hard for the joke, as if writing to a laugh-track, but Joy Williams’s humor is darker, subtler, more in line with the humor of Faulkner or Isaac Babel: bracing, unsettling.

May 05, 2016

A poem from the Spring 2016 issue.

Two wasps copulate over your back porch—
their wings grate the air above the ochre splotch

where a hawk took down a pigeon last winter
not long after your move into the yellow house

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