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Articles by Chase Twichell
Cinderblock - Podcast Playground
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Chase Twichell: “Uh-oh, Uh-oh”
what surprised you about the composition of this poem? It’s not news that people my age (old) encounter problems with memory. As a poet, I’ve spent a lifetime studying the way the mind leaves its tracks in language, so when a trail disappears, then reappears (or not), it creates an immediate mystery I’m drawn to explore. I believe that each poem must make some kind of discovery, not simply articulate something already known or observed.
Protected: Things as It is: An Interview with Chase Twichell
Chase Twichell Chase Twichell was born in 1950, and grew up in Connecticut and the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. She is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently Things as It Is (Copper Canyon, 2018). After teaching for many years, she left academia to found Ausable Press, a not-for-profit publisher of contemporary poetry, which was acquired by Copper Canyon in 2009.
Sai Tells a Ghost Story
Find and share the perfect poems. One morning in late 2010 I looked out my Pittsburgh apartment window where I always saw a parking lot, the Spinning Plates Artist Lofts, and a euonymus-lined part of the avenue, there at the beginning of Friendship. I knew all the families living on the block because of the rescue dog I live with—we would walk around, routinely meet the people.
Spring 1999
The Spring 1999 issue of Ploughshares, guest-edited by Mark Doty. Ploughshares, a journal of new writing, is guest-edited serially by prominent writers who explore different personal visions, aesthetics, and literary circles.
“Featherweight,” by Chase Twichell
At fourteen, I taught myself to sew on a Singer Featherweight, which I was an idiot to trade years later when seduced by a Bernina. As a child, I made clothes, costumes— things a feral kid would wear, or Huckleberry Finn. The only tricky part of sewing is the fitting, making clothes that fit exactly right. The actual sewing is easy—it’s just manual dexterity, patience, and precision. Fitting is geometry and math. Geometry comes to me easily, but math is an old childhood enemy. Its door remains locked.
Pedal
Find and share the perfect poems. I have a friend who measures desire by stillness, who is most turned on by the person in the room who meditates without flinching. The librarian, too, in the Manuscripts Division, handling the patron who can’t seem to stay seated warns: I will serve you the smallest items first as a knit sweater slides off a chair’s back into a loose knot.
The Ruins of Nostalgia 59 by Donna Stonecipher - Poems | Academy of American Poets
When fed into the crude, imaginary machine we call the memory, the brain's hard pictures slide into the suggestive waters of the counterfeit. They come out glamorous and simplified, even the violent ones, even the ones that are snapshots of fear. Maybe those costumed, clung-to fragments are the first wedge nostalgia drives into our dreaming. Maybe our dreams are corrupted right from the start: the weight of apples in the blossoms overhead.
Redux: Film Is Death at Work
By The Paris Review February 11, 2020 Redux Every week, the editors of The Paris Review lift the paywall on a selection of interviews, stories, poems, and more from the magazine’s archive. You can have these unlocked pieces delivered straight to your inbox every Sunday by signing up for the Redux newsletter. This week at The Paris Review, we’re watching some flicks, some pictures, some movies.
Now’s Dream by Chase Twichell
My understanding is that what I call my Self is asleep, and has dreamed up these lilacs excited by sudden thunder-dark, the birds gone still. A purple trembling. But how do I know I’m dreaming? Want to read the rest? Please login. New to Narrative? sign up. It's easy and free. Email Address: * Password: * The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help. Joining Narrative gives you FREE access to thousands of stories, poems and essays.
Poem: The Cloisters
By Chase Twichell Selected by Rita Dove May 23, 2019 We’ve all been on the middle school field trip, with its high jinks and nervy bravado — pubescent energy burst free from the institutional rigor of classrooms. No wonder, then, that to the teenagers pouring through the stone corridors in Chase Twichell’s poem, the medieval architecture of the Met Cloisters seems like a walk-through peep show, each ornamentation more lurid than the next.
Redux: Eerie Fictions of the Afternoon
By The Paris Review February 26, 2019 Redux Every week, the editors of The Paris Review lift the paywall on a selection of interviews, stories, poems, and more from the magazine’s archive. You can have these unlocked pieces delivered straight to your inbox every Sunday by signing up for the Redux newsletter. Joan Didion, John Gregory Dunne, and their daughter, Quintana Roo. The Oscars were on Sunday, and we’ve got movies on the brain.
The Fork in the Moment
The Fork in the Moment Sometimes a sentence has to go forth into the world like an eldest child and be the first one, the only kid in the class who knows all about sex and has to live with the secret knowledge, knowledge like the first fizz out of the soda bottle. Want to read more? Please login. New to Narrative? sign up. It's easy and free.
Lullabies of Elsewhere
Chase Twichell was born in New Haven, Connecticut. She earned her BA from Trinity College and MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. A practicing Buddhist, she is the author of several books of poetry, and her work often reflects her spiritual practice. In an interview...
The New Dark Ages and Other Poems by Chase Twichell | Narrative Magazine
Thunderstorms stir me up— the stillness right before the first close tremor, the pond shivering at the height of summer, the field full-blown, going to seed. But this storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land. When nature was God, in my childhood, I was not afraid. Snow buried the town. The river flooded it. Lightning set the woods on fire. In months the damage bandaged itself with mosses and ferns, or got rebuilt.
Twilights, V
Find and share the perfect poems. Now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds Whirs and whirls in the heavens with dipping rim; Against the ice-white wall of light in the west Skeleton trees bow down in a stream of air. Leaves, black leaves and smoke, are blown on the wind; Mount upward past my window; swoop again; In a sharp silence, loudly, loudly falls The first cold drop, striking a shriveled leaf . . .
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