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Articles by Catherine M. Bowman
Elegy for the Penny
What will I give you now for your thoughts. Without those two pairs of copper eyes in my pair of copper loafers, who will guide the child feet in me across Heaven’s and Hell’s streets. How will I learn to look up instead of to the earth as I kneel down hoping no one sees, to scoop the lost and forgotten from a puddle of mud in a church parking lot, knowing that’s what brings luck.
National Poetry Month: Catherine Bowman
Here we slurped oysters, cracked clams, birthed baby birds in a slur of fat and microgreens coaxed from mossy beds. Our table more unearthed than built by an ox of an earthy man that speaks in a dialect only oxen can understand. Here we dabbled and daubed buttons and lifetimes and foil. With our fingers we spread out a continent of dried pinto beans and with clouds over our eyes felt for debris and pebbles.
Another Drive-By
Ryan, Fairfax, California, 1996. Kay Ryan, who was named the sixteenth poet laureate of the United States in July, lives in Fairfax, California, where for more than thirty years she has taught remedial English part-time at the College of Marin at Kentfield. She is often referred to as a poetry “outsider” and underdog.
Paris Review - The Return
As the retreating Bructeri began to burn their own possessions, to deny to the Romans every sustenance but ashes, a flying column sent by Germanicus commanded by Lucius Stertinius routed them; and there, discovered amid plunder and the dead, was the Eagle of the nineteenth legion, lost with Varus. The Romans now brought to the land of the Bructeri, —to whatever lay between the river Ems and the river Lippe, to the very edge of their territory, — devastation;
The War of Vaslav Nijinsky
Still gripped by the illusion of an horizon; overcome with the finality of a broken tooth; suspecting that habits are the only salvation, But he did not live through War—; when the whole world painted its face Someone must expiate the blood. No. Let what is past be forgotten. Let even the blood Expiation is not necessary. Suffering has made me what I am,— I must not regret; or judge; or struggle to escape it in the indifference of (the ruthless ecstasy of) CHANGE; “my endless RENEWAL”; BECOMING.
Paris Review - After Wyatt
Rowland Scherman John Hall Wheelock passes his ninetieth birthday in September 1976. Born in Far Rockaway, New York, he was brought up in the neighborhood now occupied by Rockefeller Center, not far from the present location of Charles Scribner’s Sons, where he worked as an editor for many years.
Paris Review - Mercy of Fire
In an October 1957 letter to a friend who had recommended he read Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, Hunter S. Thompson wrote, “Although I don’t feel that it’s at all necessary to tell you how I feel about the principle of individuality, I know that I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life expressing it one way or another, and I think that I’ll accomplish more by expressing it on the keys of a typewriter than by letting it express itself in sudden outbursts of frustrated violence. . .
Anne Carson, The Art of Poetry No. 88
Anne Carson and I first met in 1988 at a writers’ workshop in Canada, and have been reading each other’s work ever since. The interview that follows is a mix of our usual conversation and discussion about topics that preoccupy Carson’s work—mysticism, antiquity, obsession, desire. Carson was born on June 21, 1950, in Toronto, the second and final child of Margaret and Robert Carson. Her mother was a housewife; her father worked for the Toronto Dominion Bank.
Staff Picks: ‘Wade in the Water,’ Weiwei, and Williams
Tracy K Smith “Our bodies run with ink dark blood. / Blood pools in the pavement’s seams. Is it strange to say love is a language / Few practice, but all, or near all speak?” So begins Tracy K. Smith’s poem “Unrest in Baton Rouge,” from the forthcoming collection, Wade in the Water.
“The Bed” by Catherine Bowman
Catherine Bowman’s poem “The Bed” first appeared in our Winter 1988 issue. Her latest collection is Can I Finish, Please?. I was five that summer, in our new house, with the light aproning over the desert just before dark. That year I touched the blue pink skin of my cousin’s baby rabbits in the smoky evening smell of El Paso lawns. And there’s Hulia watching me, her head positioned, great and toothless, through the broken window; the first big boney fish star of the wrinkled sky.
Poem: “LBJ Ranch Barbecue”
Catherine Bowman’s poem “LBJ Ranch Barbecue” appeared in our Fall 1990 issue. Waist deep, almost naked, evening time soak,a dozen Rajah bellies, a dozen Titan schnauzes,wade in chlorinated agua toasting to the tuneof charismatic oratory and little Jimmy swing.Two thousand pounds of Grade A carne vaporizethe heat.
BOWMAN: Understanding the new ruling on paying salaried employees
The Department of Labor has issued its long awaited ruling regarding salaried exempt employees — and it affects over a third of current full-time salaried workers. The Fair Labor Standards Act determines how employees must be paid, and determines who may be exempt from the overtime and minimum wage laws. Traditionally an employee who is exempt from the FLSA is paid a specific salary no matter how many hours the employee works.
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