Most writers have imagined the scene of their own death—in the hopes of stylizing the moment or savoring the thought of someone sifting through and publishing their old manuscripts. It seems that James Tate, even in death, outdid us all by leaving his earthly post in the most writerly way possible: with a delightful last poem stuck in his typewriter. Over at the Paris Review, Dan Piepenbring is slightly jealous on all our behalfs.
Input your search keywords and press Enter.
The Rumpus needs your help. We need to raise $25,000 to fill our funding gap for 2024.
Our home base is Asheville, NC and Hurricane Helene severely impacted our ability to host events, launch new initiatives, and caused other significant financial setbacks this fall.
Can you support us at any level by Dec. 31? Every dollar counts and is a sign that our readers collectively value creative labor and independent publishing.
Sign up for the weekly Rumpus
Once a week, we'll send you a roundup of what's new on the magazine, invites to upcoming events, open calls for submissions, and more!