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Articles by Emily Fragos
“The Night Nurse,” by Emily Fragos | The New Yorker
Content This content can also be viewed on the site it from. Audio: Read by the author. The night nurse turns me in my bed and changes the white sheets under me. They are wet, they are soiled, and the night nurse washes my face and changes my gown. I am clean and refreshed because of the night nurse. The night nurse comes to me with a pill in a tiny cup. I take the pill from her beautiful hands and the night nurse takes away my pain, so that I may sleep without plague of dream or fear of never waking.
Grief Dream by Carol Muske-Dukes - Poems
Spring in Hell and everything’s blooming. I dreamt the worst was over but it wasn’t. Suppose my punishment was fields of lilies sharper than razors, cutting up fields of lies. Suppose my punishment was purity, mined and blanched. They shunned me only because I knew I was stunning. Then the white plague came, and their pleas were like a river. Summer was orgiastic healing, snails snaking around wrists. In heat, garbage festooned the sidewalks. Old men leered at bodies they couldn’t touch until they did.
The Suicide of Cesare Pavese
By Rae Armantrout Photo courtesy of Rae Armantrout Independent, skeptical, laconic, and always lyrical, Rae Armantrout is a poet of wit and precision. Her poems are typically built of brief sections and short lines in which every word and syllable has been carefully weighed and placed. She also values alacrity and surprise. Arcs of argument can end midflight or spring abruptly in unforeseen directions. The tone shifts, and shifts again.
Poem for a Daughter
Here’s a dustbowl drenched in eucalyptus, in the middle of nowhere where I’ve been some dozen times. Here’s a fire hydrant, brilliant, swallowed by the shrunken brush. I hug it like it loves me, lick it like it’s mine. I’m itching and aching and bored. I need you to be born. Make new what was never new, make it rain. I’m killing bees with my bare hands. I’ve ridden all the stable horses. When I use a canteen I love the word canteen. I have lived on earth for thirty-one years now.
Molotov
I got my dream pills. They’re wrapped in tin foil And it’s going to be alright. I got sweet Billy with me And he’s still breathing and It’s beautiful, what they’re telling us. Got my enzymes, a nickel bag of Electrolytes. My entire life, I’ve been waiting for this. I got my radio on. I’ve got it hooked into a chip And lodged inside a suburb of thought In my brain, somehow. And it’s weird, how it’s wired. I can hear the fires. I can hear the daisies As they fell the desert.
Hilary Hahn: Entering the Sublime
There is no violinist in the world today quite like Hilary Hahn. She is widely regarded as one of the most essential, daring, and intense artists of our time. Her Bach has been hailed as thrilling, incendiary, and one of the wonders of the Western world. A restlessly curious musician, she champions contemporary composers and opens herself up to other genres of music, pushing the boundaries of performing, and challenging her own classical identity.
The Sadness of Clothes
When someone dies, the clothes are so sad. They have outlived their usefulness and cannot get warm and full. You talk to the clothes and explain that he is not coming back as when he showed up immaculately dressed in slacks and plaid jacket and had that beautiful smile on and you’d talk. You’d go to get something and come back and he’d be gone. You explain death to the clothes like that dream. You tell them how much you miss the spouse and how much you miss the pet with its little winter sweater.
Tine Thing Helseth: Listening to the Heart and Mind of a Musical Genius
When Tine Thing Helseth [TEEN-eh ting HEL-set] comes on stage, she possesses a lovely and unpretentious presence, rich humanness, and a genuine sense of wonder. The audience can tell that a rare and radiant performance is about to occur. So fluid and complete is the communion of this musician to her instrument, so beautiful is her tone, that her playing is the very definition of virtuosity, the essence of musical sublimity.
The Sadness of Clothes
When someone dies, the clothes are so sad. They have outlived their usefulness and cannot get warm and full. You talk to the clothes and explain that he is not coming back as when he showed up immaculately dressed in slacks and plaid jacket and had that beautiful smile on and you’d talk. You’d go to get something and come back and he’d be gone. You explain death to the clothes like that dream. You tell them how much you miss the spouse and how much you miss the pet with its little winter sweater.
Ponies at the South Pole
after a photograph, Scott Expedition, 1912They are quieter than quiet. They are colder than coldcan be imagined. They may very well be blind.Their ears receive the last sensation, a tiny crumbleof nothing. Their oblong heads tilt toward each other. ... the end cannot be far writes the bungling,stubborn man in his battered white tent,writes suffering, bungling man.
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