March 14, 2017

A poem from the Spring 2017 issue.

Two years ago today my mother died,
eighty-nine and brilliant, stubborn, brave.
March 14, 2017

A poem from the Spring 2017 issue.

I remember the raw December weather,
boys shouting curses and most of them drunk.

I remember the wind in the barley stubble.
I remember the man they dragged from the trunk.
March 14, 2017

A poem from the Spring 2017 issue.

Never allow your heaven to grow too large,
the raven said, when I stepped out, first light.
But it was not a raven. I am lying.
June 13, 2017

Four poems from the Summer 2017 issue.

Beware the wolf always, but trust the witch
and the sugar-crash, the star-lore and wind

that shadows your cheeks with your lashes,
let the night swallow you whole again.

May 15, 2017

A previously unpublished poem by Margaret Walker. 

For a dozen wonderful writers:
Goodbye to all you girls and guys
who walked this weary way 
who climbed these hills
and walked these miles
this rocky wooded chase.
A dozen wonderful writers

May 15, 2017

The introduction to a previously unpublished poem by Margaret Walker. 

Nearly twenty years after her death and seventy-five years after the publication of For My People, this magazine sent me a previously unpublished poem of Walker’s. The poem, “An Elegiac Valedictory,” is a work that remembers, with comic clarity, the words, food, time, and space she shared with the likes of Toni Cade Bambara, James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, and Audre Lorde.

April 26, 2017

Michael Shewmaker’s exceptional debut hinges on the need not to resolve form but to further open it, a puzzle, a question, as though the very act of questioning keeps him in balance.

April 19, 2017

A poem by Phillip B. Williams from our Spring 2016 issue. 

First thought: the speckled darkness 
was a storm’s arrival shocking birds
from their perches. 
April 14, 2017

A poem from our 18th Southern Music Issue: Visions of the Blues. 

You step on the gas, honey, then take your foot off the clutch.
You step on the gas, honey, then take your foot off the clutch.
This little car is going nowhere, honey, without your touch.
April 04, 2016
Victor Campbell carries a chunk of Tennessee Williams’s soul around New Orleans every day in a black leather briefcase. He keeps the rest of it in the back of his bedroom closet, in an olive-green Samsonite suitcase, the weight of half a man.