Blogs Archives - Page 23 of 470 - The Rumpus

Three goats with attitude

Rumpus Original Fiction: On the Farm

On the farm, I understand exactly the degree to which I have come to depend on alcohol, since in the first three weeks I think about it frequently and get worried and even look for it twice in the farmer’s house, and on the fourth week I am less interested, and on the fifth week I do other things.

ENOUGH: Landlines

Before my father killed her, my mother spent her evenings telling me the story of how she came to America. Every night, the way she started was with something new.

A Rumpus Poetry Gift Guide

Poetry for everyone

RUMPUS POETRY BOOK CLUB EXCERPT: GARDEN by Gabrielle Bates

An excerpt from The Rumpus Poetry Book Club's January selection, JUDAS GOAT by Gabrielle Bates forthcoming from Tin House Books on January 24, 2023

Rumpus Original Fiction: Chicken

I used my fingers on the neighbor and he liked it.

FUNNY WOMEN: I’m an Audience Member at this Panel Event, and I Have More of a Comment than a Question

Feedback is a gift.

Voices on Addiction: Whatever Fatal Thing

D— was dreamy in the precise manner of Neil Young circa 1974. Long, dark hair; green eyes; great butt; nice smile. He was sweet, funny, just tall enough. Wore a…

The Last Book

The poet goes to the supermarket for peanut butter. The poet cleans the toilet. The poet responds to emails.

From the Archive: Rumpus Original Fiction: Mr. Burley

My favorite was usually the smallest, the most alive.

A man in gold standing over a woman laying dow on a table.

Rumpus Original Fiction: Prepare a Table Before Me, Anoint My Head with Oil

Before I understood that I was a girl, I understood that I was a body.

We Are More: I Can’t Tell

It’s February 1991, and I can’t tell you where the Middle East is on a map, or why it’s called the Middle East. But my family eats Syrian bread with every meal (I can’t tell you the difference between Syrian bread and pita, but I know they’re not the same).

The bar with bottles on the shelves

Rumpus Original Fiction: The Bridal Set

The salad was plump, squealing things I couldn’t understand. I remembered feeling a deep sadness that everything in the world wasn’t painted green, the best color. I hungered for green. The gift of sunlight flecked on leaves, the pale chartreuse of American money.

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