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Articles by Sina Queyras
Tummy-flat - Geist.com
From Lemon Hound, a poetry collection published by Coach House Books in 2006. The tummy-flat girls will not embrace feminism. Will not consider ecology or philosophy anything more than a brand name. They are not worried about the environment, a luxury for another generation. A pre-bubble-bursting time. They are so done with all that. They are so over it. They are so Whatever. They are so Yeah, yeah, yeah. They are so She’s so uptight. They are so She’s such a nightmare. They are so Bummer.
The problem is that the problem refuses To respond to itself
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Not one of these words was written by Ai. In fact, might this be the last Ai free text? Ask google, ask—well, what about don’t? Or no? I have said no Ai a thousand times, An eternity has passed, and in every composition On every device I choose to reject Ai. I say no, I toggle no, I mean no. Why must I always choose no? I said no Ai. Why? Because I choose no Ai. I choose no. Choose again? No Ai. Still no.
Rooms: Women, Writing, Woolf
Each chapter of Sina Queyras’s Rooms: Women, Writing, Woolf opens by revisiting the corresponding chapter of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. For example: It’s a bold, even risky strategy.
How Sylvia Plath Calls Out for Connection Across Time
“Lady Lazarus” is one of the late October poems Sylvia Plath wrote in a burst, at Court Green, around the time of her thirtieth birthday. Like many of the poems in Ariel, this one is part rage, part self-talk. Biographer Anne Stevenson refers to it as “merciless self-projection”: more “assault” than poetry. “Lady Lazarus” is often read as an inevitable march toward the third, and final, suicide attempt. The lines “Dying / Is an art, like everything else.
Sylvia Plath’s Elegy for Sylvia Plath by Sina Queyras
If you can’t feel love in life you won’t feel it in death, nor Will you feel the tulip’s skin, nor the soft gravel Of childhood under cheek. You will have writhed Across the page for a hard couplet, a firm rhyme, ass High as any downward dog, and cutlass arms Lashing any mother who tries to pass: Let’s be frank About the cost of spurs, mothers like peonies Will haunt, but not how you imagine it will.
Sina Queyras: How Sylvia Plath offers a way to see beauty in tragic circumstances | Quill and Quire
Why I turned to Sylvia Plath as the inspiration for my new collection of poetry, My Ariel, still remains a bit of a mystery to me. Aesthetically it makes no sense: for starters I don’t write “single” lyric poems. My partner did not betray me (as far as I know). I am not even heterosexual. Plath is a young person’s poet, a gateway poet into a world I have inhabited now for several decades. In a way though, it’s relatively simple: I became a parent and I was looking for motherhood poems.
Coach House Books
A poem-by-poem engagement with Sylvia Plath's Ariel and the towering mythology surrounding it. When I am a bitch I feel in such good company. Nice girls never gave me anything but trouble, Eating the ground out from under me, then waving As I fall. Pity one has to die to see how liberating Bad can be. But what news had I of my own self? Words landed like razors, hours tinkled, suitors arrived. Listen, you'll think otherwise, but I tell you, betrayal Is your Get Out of Jail Free card.
On Longing, Listening, and Levity: Lauren Levin Interviews Alli Warren
This is the second half of a two-part conversation between Alli Warren and Lauren Levin. The first part can be found here. I FIRST MET Alli Warren through her work, specifically the chapbook Cousins, published by Gina Myers’s Lame House Press series. I remember (this is off the top of my head, so might be wrong, but feels right) a striking blue-and-orange cover. And the way the title so perfectly reflected the work within: deeply striving for connection, but also witty, a little sly, off-kilter.
'A Secret' by Sina Queyras - Berfrois
Eliot was right; it’s useless to describe a feeling. -Elizabeth Bachinsky The students won’t bow, or pirouette, Though they trace the stations Of your exit, like Alice, diving into the Wreck. They love all the plunges, All the feels. The layers. The rage, The ravage. The pills. The outfits. The wit. The sex. The smoulder. The double-barrelled insults, the eye-rhymes, The wit, the sullen, The anger: The smart ones stab that and ride it, One middle finger Up their cunts, the other Erect in your face.
The Couriers by Sina Queyras : Poetry Magazine
Words from a leaf on the shell of a snail? Tendency as reciprocity etched in shale. Cider vinegar wrapped in sealskin? Accept it, so little is genuine. A box on a meteor compelled by earth? Lies, emptiness, grief: it’s not a first. Frost on the dock at Penetanguishene? Tears from Lake Huron, Erie, and Michigan. Not a moment to yourself? Don’t let love put you on a shelf. A preponderance of errors? The soft one sucks her rivers. Love, love, needs no reason. Yes, yes, yes, is my season.
Manual for Remembering
When remembering it is best to wear pants without cuffs, boots, gloves, safety glasses and a feeling helmet (shade 10 or higher). * I worry about open spaces. Wetness. But I also worry about walls, about feeling in confined spaces. I worry about the lilies. Do they have sufficient insulation? Is there an electrode holder under the furrow of beans? Will the earth hold my idea of it? Will it hold my idea of me? Is all this thinking sustainable?
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