* nonfiction by Norma Crawford Tomlinson * Dear Cora, I sat down to read this evening, but somehow my thoughts kept wandering to you, and I’ve put up my book to talk to you. I feel so queer tonight, as if something was going to happen. It’s been coming on all this afternoon. Now to make it perfect I spose that some calamity should occur. But you know I’m not very superstitious.
* nonfiction by Laura Glen Louis from MQR 54:2 (Spring 2015) * When you sing in community, and every singer is dead in the center of the pitch, a hole opens up that everyone can pass through. On the other side is no magical land, no lush gardens, no brilliant light, but there is a palpable sense of other space that is resonance.
* nonfiction by Andrew D. Cohen from MQR 54:2 (Spring 2015) * I’d been wandering for the better part of two hours through the outskirts of Lviv, or Lvov, or Lemberg or Lwów—it was hard to know what to call this city, given how many countries and empires had conquered, reconquered, occupied, reoccupied, or otherwise staked claim to it—looking for a concentration camp called Janowska, where upwards of 200,000 Jews, including, possibly, my grandmother’s older brother, Pinchas, had been worked to death or shot, unless they’d somehow survived all that and been put on a train to Belzec where they were taken care of once and for all.
Spring 2015 is now available! Order it in either print or pdf format for $7 or as part of a subscription for $25:
Andrew D. Cohen tries going back to the Old Country, Laura Glen Louis sings—and meditates on—Leonard Bernstein’s Chichester Psalms, Piotr Florczyk reviews the recent work of Jane Hirschfield, Mark Gustafson explores the young Robert Bly in an unlikely gathering of poets in 1975.
Fiction from Ethan Chatagnier, Alison Hagy, Jane E. Martin, Matthew Pitt, Debbie Urbanski.
Poetry from Jim Daniels, Martín Espada, Katie Hartsock, Dennis Hinrichsen, L. S. Klatt, Lance Larsen, Cintia Santana, Diane Seuss.
* poetry by Laura Kasischke from MQR 54:1 Winter 2015 *
Nothing’s perfect. Only
the first summer day I dipped
my son’s tiny toes
into the cold careless gray
of Lake Michigan.
Also, my second glimpse
of my second husband
who wasn’t my husband then.