National Poetry Month: Adam Falkner
Who doesn’t ache / for a slice of quiet in the noisy sugar of us? / Pocket of still amidst the looney & clatter?
Recent posts
Rumpus Articles
A Panoptical View of Slough: On Sylvia Legris’s The Principle of Rapid Peering
Scattered with a sparse collection of the poet’s original sketches . . . the poems move through the slanted and repetitive months of the pandemic, bleeding into “self-digesting” seasons.
The Bloodier Your Hands, the More Loyal You Become to the System: A Conversation with Sarah Langan
The thing about cults, they indoctrinate. They whitewash. They blind us to better alternatives.
Voices on Addiction: Last Drunk
In the past, getting the ball rolling has proven to be a Sisyphean task. Max admits he has a problem and is pretty sure he can solve it. Alone.
National Poetry Month: Daniella Toosie-Watson
Make no mistake, my dad is alive / in this poem. His glasses are on, his skin is white, / and his jokes are bad.
A Dance of One’s Own: Nicolette Polek’s Bitter Water Opera
The return of someone deceased is a common enough trope, but where it is normally horrific . . . Polek initially runs jolly with it.
National Poetry Month: Jai Hamid Bashir
Then, there is another creature: jewel-eyed / like a housefly’s wings in paradise, caught / in the shape of a girl.
Everything in Our Lived Presence is Interconnected: A Conversation with Ellen van Neerven
Sport is seen as characterizing a nation. If there’s a sense of injustice and inequality in the fabric of what a nation says it is, then how does that trickle down to everyday life?
Back into The Garden: The (Re)turn at the End of Ross Gay’s Poem “To the Mulberry Tree”
Close Reads is an essays column exploring a specific page, paragraph, or sentence from a book, film, piece of music, or other media.
National Poetry Month: Suzi F. Garcia
none of us / want to be where we’re from, and that is the one thing / we have in common anymore.
National Poetry Month: Chrysanthemum
Stupefied by proof, / I mock a springtime chest, / needle what’s manmade—
National Poetry Month: KB Brookins
Sometimes I miss home and then I eat a sandwich. / Sometimes I want to call my cousin, tell her all her bullshit—