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Articles by Laura Kasischke
New Literature in Translation: March 2022 by Jeremy Garber
Lists New Literature in Translation: March 2022 by Jeremy Garber, March 22, 2022 8:59 AM Ah, spring — at long last! Of all the simple, delighting joys the season brings, reading outside amidst the blooms and blossoms and lengthening days must rank near the top.
L’invalide
La prairie ce matin depuis la fenêtre de la salle d’attente. Pluvieuse, avril et impatiente : Pas de prairie. On ne voit rien. On entend seulement la sorte de musique que les enfants jouent avec des instruments construits avec bois et corde. Simple. Vent humide. Un invalide il y a longtemps de cela qui avait agrippé mon poignet : Où donc croyez-vous aller à cette si jolie petite allure, mademoiselle ? Où sont-ils maintenant, anthologie personnelle, coll.
532: The Vine
Transcript I’m Ada Limón and this is The Slowdown. In my mother’s art studio in downtown Sonoma, California, she has a portrait of two people who are ancestors of ours of some sort. She’s not quite clear who they are, but the portrait is stark, black and white. A woman with hair parted in the middle and pulled into a low bun, serious, and a man with laughing eyes. He looks like the troublemaker in the duo.
Celebrating New Poetry and Abundant Creativity
Little tin key Lost somewhere in my memory, returned to me in a dream —Laura Kasischke, from “Talisman” In this season of giving, you are invited to celebrate new poetry and explore the marvel of the creative process. Your donation supports an entire fall/winter season of collections from a brilliant and diverse cohort of authors, including Bestiary Dark by Marianne Boruch, Burying the Mountain by Shangyang Fang, A God at the Door by Tishani Doshi, and Lightning Falls in Love by Laura Kasischke.
Prayer by Laura Kasischke - Poems
When I sing to you I am alone these days and can't believe it, as if the stars --while gazing up at them--just shut off. Astonished: I search out the one light, brightest light in the night sky, but find I cannot find it without weaker lights to guide me like red tail-lights on a car up ahead after midnight when I'm sleepy, that illustrate how the highway curves, curving to a hook, and maybe save my life and it means nothing to me because nothing has happened, not the faintest glint of drama.
Hospital parking lot, April
Once there was a woman who laughed for years uncontrollably after a stroke. Once there was a child who woke after surgery to find his parents were impostors. These seagulls above the parking lot today, made of hurricane and ether, they have flown directly out of the brain wearing little blue-gray masks, like strangers' faces, full of wingéd mania, like television in waiting rooms. Entertainment. Pain.
53: Boy in Park
53: Boy in Park February 6, 2019 · 5:00 Boy in Park by Laura Kasischke Small boy running through the center of the park, un- zipping summer straight down the middle as he runs until all the small boys come tumbling out. All the small boys pouring from the world’s fissure into the world: My father with a ball and bat. My husband with a wooden gun. My son in a cowboy hat. Their shaving creams and razors. Their little shoes. Their untied laces.
The Eavesdropper, or What I Thought I Heard My Mother Talking About on the Phone, in Another Room, Thirty-Six Years Ago by Laura Kasischke
I still keep it hidden in the jar of saltwater you gave me don’t worry, no one can hear me, my husband’s in the bathroom & my daughter’s in her bedroom wearing those headphones made of sponges on her ears yes, I’ve kept it all these years, and kept it hidden, but — I have to tell you something: something about it has changed recently has changed since the last time we talked the shell has opened, and — calm down please I’m about to tell you I’ve waited years to tell you how? how could I have...
The Internet by Laura Kasischke
The Internet The first time I sit down to it alone I am flesh surrounded by space. The space begins at the edges of my body and from there it expands to contain everything. I’ve sinned. Want to read more? Please login. New to Narrative? sign up. It's easy and free.
The 2017 National Book Award Longlists
The National Book Foundation has announced its longlists for the 2017 National Book Awards. The five finalists in each category will be named on October 4, and the winner will be announced at a ceremony in New York City on November 15.
Poem: The Widows’ Neighborhood
Terrance Hayes is the author of five collections of poetry, most recently ‘‘How to Be Drawn,’’ which was a finalist for the National Book Award in 2015. His fourth collection, ‘‘Lighthead,’’ won the 2010 National Book Award. Laura Kasischke is the author of 11 works of fiction and 10 poetry collections, including ‘‘Where Now: New and Selected Poems,’’ published in July by Copper Canyon Press.Illustration by R. O.
The New York Times
It’s the murderer who got away with it, sitting on a park bench, thinking about snow and how it’s over. Little flower-faces peeking out of dirt to shriek Hello! While mothers wheel babies by, absurdly bright. Businessmen in amber. And the light on steeples served up in cones of white. But — something here is also not quite right. Old lady in a little girl’s bonnet. Ugly dog with a child’s smile.
"The Time Machine"
The Time MachineMy mother begged me: Please, please, study stenography...I would have no future, and thisis the future that was lost in time to mehaving scoffed at her, refusingto learn the only skill I’d ever need, the oneI will associate forever now with loss, with herbald head, her wig, a worldby the time we had this argument, whileour walls stayed slathered in its pale green.wore its sweater sets. While wegiddily picked the pineappleoff our hams with toothpicks.
The Enormous Cage
She said, I have a dirty little secret to sharewith you, and it will explaineverything. And then she blew it into the beakof a very tiny birdin an enormous cage. The bird, of course, slippedthrough the bars and flew away—What they took with them when they died.What they almost said, but wouldn’t say.
National Poetry Month - Natasha Tretheway
Illustration: Peter Oumanski 1 of 3 Why Poetry Matters I was 19 when I lost my mom, but it wasn't until years later that I encountered Lisel Mueller's poem "When I Am Asked," about a day soon after her own mother died.
‘Binoculars’ - NYTimes.com
Photo Credit Illustration by R. O. Blechman A flicker is a type of woodpecker, but here the poet captures the word’s multiple meanings: the actual bird, wavering light and, most profoundly, how the past returns again and again, as a momentary confrontation with the things memory and self-reflection — that telescopic, magnifying lens — will not let us forget. Poem selected by Natasha Trethewey.
The New York Times
If and when you go away to college you can become somebody else; you can kill off your old self and be reborn. So generations of young people have believed. But once they have done it — ditching provincial tastes and hometown boyfriends for a sorority, a fraternity or an undergraduate bohemia — they may trade one conformity for another; they may feel haunted by their former lives. No wonder teenage life, on and off campus, seems to fit stories of vampires, ghosts, the undead.
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