poetry
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Weaving Webs in Meghan Privitello’s Notes on the End of the World
In Notes on the End of the World, time is not linear. Memories of the past intersect with the present. In a flashback to a pre-apocalyptic carnival, we see signs of impending doom.
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A Way to Make Sense of the World with Suzanne Buffam
Poet Suzanne Buffam discusses her latest work, A Pillow Book, sleep remedies that don’t work, and the worries that occupy her mind and keep her from sleep.
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The Rumpus Poetry Book Club Chat with Khadijah Queen
Khadijah Queen about her new collection I’m So Fine, the importance of including sexual assault as a part of everyday life, and how the poems in the collection found their form.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: The Hammock
Birth, death. We live in the middle. “What’s it like?” Lee asks. “Is it a door, and goodbye on either side?” Just like the stars, one day we all collapse, our mass and light and energy exploding into nothingness.
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Why I Chose When I Grow Up I Want To Be a List of Further Possibilities for April’s Poetry Book Club
I am drawn to poetry about the difficulties of family, about the pain of feeling one is a disappointment to their parents, about the sense of separation that can come as a result. Chen Chen’s debut collection is filled with work…
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Music Always About to Begin: Not on the Last Day, but on the Very Last
Matthew Minicucci reviews Justin Boening’s Not on the Last Day, but on the Very Last today in Rumpus Poetry.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: 21 Poems That Shaped America (Pt. 8): “Song of the Gourd”
“Song of the Gourd” is like an eye roll at this sort of gusto about leaving the Southland.
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This Week in Books: The True Book of Animal Homes
Welcome to This Week in Books, where we highlight books just released by small and independent presses. Books have always been a symbol for and means a of spreading knowledge and wisdom, and they are an important part of our toolkit…
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Sunday Rumpus Poetry: Three Poems by Amy Strauss Friedman
I thought that hearts were meant to function as uteri, / to grow linings that bleed clotty when life won’t adhere, / to stall like rusty engines in barren winters, / unprepared for the seasonal shift.


