The Rumpus Interview with Kate Bolick
Kate Bolick talks about her new book, Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own, writing and the nuclear family, and whether women are finally people yet.
Rumpus Original
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What Eyes Does Your Poem Have?
And this is how poetry derives its power, its agency, by the ways it can direct the eye. But the poet has a different toolkit from a visual artist. The world of a poem builds incrementally: it grows, it accretes.
Wanted/Needed/Loved: Chris Frantz’s Pocket Camera
What I want/need/love most are the tools that allow me to document what I see and experience, at home and in my travels, now and in the future.
The Ways We Speak
We suffer, after all, not because of the ways we speak, but because of the ways we exclude ourselves with internalized external narratives about how different we feel from others.
The Rumpus Late Nite Poetry Show: Rick Barot
In Episode 13 of The Rumpus Late Nite Poetry Show, Rick Barot discusses his newest collection, Chord, tone in poetry, and the selfies Bishop might've posted.
FUNNY WOMEN #133: Ladies! You Should Talk Different
Speaking of emotion, which you shouldn’t, saying the word “emotional” out loud is the oral equivalent of running your tampon up a flagpole in the middle of a law firm.
The Rumpus Poetry Book Club Chat with Thorpe Moeckel
The Rumpus Poetry Book Club chats with Thorpe Moeckel about his new book Arcadia Road, the challenge of writing long poems, raising twins, and camo thongs.
The Rumpus Interview with Francisco Goldman
Francisco Goldman talks about the Narvarte Murders, Ayotzinapa, and the stories he feels most responsible for telling now.
The Sunday Rumpus Essay: The Displeasure of the Table
What strange hurts hide in the lettuce, the strawberries, the chicken, the melon, the spinach? What dark poisons may turn the eating violent?
The Saturday Rumpus Review of The Martian
It is the story of an astronaut stranded on Mars for about a year, all by himself.
Proof of Passage
The scrutiny left me angry and exposed. We know; we are not whole. The unraveling was so slow; we were each undone, stitch by stitch.