Yearly Archives: 2012

Book Reviews

Review by Nancy Vona – I experienced a serious case of writer envy after reading Rosaly DeMaios Roffman’s latest book of poetry. Many of the poems evoked an exclamation of “that’s how I feel—I wish I’d written that!” Roffman has…

Book Reviews

Review by Jennifer Jean – I love dark chocolate. The higher the percentage of bitter to sweet the better for me. No surprise then that I found myself gnashing on Nicelle Davis’ bitter-intensive poetry in Circe, her recent collection out…

Book Reviews

Review by Wendy Babiak Not Stung – I have read a lot of bad poetry. Between having moderated a poem-sharing site and now judging a monthly online contest, I’ve read more than my share. I know bad poetry. And I…

Book Reviews

Review by Lynne Shapiro – Once I got past my initial fear that The Archivist’s subject matter and language was too remote for my taste, I found I had misjudged the book entirely. I couldn’t put it down and read…

Prose

A pen in hand works like bloodletting.  Something in the gut.  It’s the Voice of all voices asking to reign and leave my body behind, but I need more time. I trust other people when I want to believe they’re…

Op-Ed

Our body is our beloved, and our destiny is found in our dreams: “Where are you?” asked Marjorie. “On a boat off the coast of The Big Island of Hawaii,” I answered as a dozen dolphins took flight into the…

Press

The Mom Egg – 2012 Reviewed by Tanya Angell Allen In New Pages http://www.newpages.com/item/4908-the-mom-egg-2012-06 “Before reading The Mom Egg, one might question why, if thousands of successful contemporary writers are also mothers, do we need an annual literary publication which…

Book Reviews

Review by Virginia Bell In Eve Packer’s most recent book of poems, New Nails, the speaker delights in the notion that “people are strange when you’re a stranger.” She interviews, chats up, and eavesdrops on strangers she encounters everywhere, from…

Book Reviews

Review by Moira Richards  – The scent of summer clings to dampened soil; we long to turn it under, let the living nestle down beneath the leaf mulch, as we, inside our houses, turn on lamps against November, wait again…

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