Articles About poetry :: Page 2
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Emergent Verse | Sonorous Sibilants
“Poets love form — even free-versers like me, who let go of strictly prescribed numbers of syllables in each line (meter), number of lines (like sonnets, villanelles) and rhyme schemes.”
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Emergent Verse | ‘High Lonesome’
Retired Antioch professor, poet and translator Harold Wright used to contribute articles to the News, concluding with a tanka, a strict Japanese poetic form.
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Emergent Verse | An Introduction
As I walked in Glen Helen pondering the first installment of this reincarnated poetry column, the phrase “emergent verse” came to me and I realized I’d found its title.
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Review | Queer poems as Midwest field guide
Sometimes pastoral, sometimes confessional, “evening primroses” roots out what it means to move through a changing landscape as a changing self.
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First Lines — Many human hearts
“Completing the harvest” of two years of poetry columns in the News, a final column of thanks to poets and readers. Eighteen local and regional poets have appeared in this space.
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Winter Solstice Poetry Reading— ‘Magics and songs’ offer healing gifts
The season’s first snowfall came ahead of Tecumseh Land Trust’s annual Winter Solstice Poetry Reading, to be held this year on Friday, Dec. 11, at 7 p.m., via Zoom.
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First Lines — What remains
In the July column, a delicate and image-rich poem by Delaware, Ohio, poet Kip Knott. What is our place in the world? Can the question be transcended, or better — simply let go?
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First Lines — Heart of compassion
Amid the turmoil on Earth, have you looked at the stars? Villager Tim Morand contributes this month’s poem, a meditation on compassion, the shifts in human life and the grandeur of the night sky.
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First Lines — Staggered
This month, this strange month, this unforgettable month, has been in some ways so sweet. This sweet world is as much the world as the frightening one is. April’s poetry column, written from lockdown, with a poem by column editor Audrey Hackett.
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First Lines — ‘Underground river of poetry’
The poetry of spring is gushing forth — the poetry of eternal spring, and the poetry of this strange spring, virus-tossed, virus-laced. A visionary poem by villager Robert Paschell, from the March column.
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