Mausoleum for a Scorpio
By Poetry Issue 107
‘Speak to us of poetry and politics,’ / he said to me from his seat in the audience / as I was on stage.
Read MoreField of Encounter: A Conversation with G.C. Waldrep
By Interview Issue 107
It is one thing to write an inspirational poem about the raising of Lazarus, from this great distance in time and space, and another to be Lazarus: to be the one who is raised. I think any genuine religious art leads the reader (and presumably the writer) to a place of encounter, an encounter with radical otherness.
Read MoreGlobes
By Poetry Issue 107
Son’s / net-/ works / / veins under / the skin / of the dark / / call / see/ knock! / / a chandelier / glows / in the dark
Read MorePrayer Wall
By Poetry Issue 106
Hadara Bar-Nadav on praying at Jerusalem’s Western Wall.
Read MoreA Conversation with Randall Kenan
By Interview Issue 48
I wanted to break down part of the Gospel story. As I see it, it’s not just about the son sacrificing himself and all those dynamics that inform the biography. I wanted to look at the messages in the Gospels that haunt our lives. What would we do in this world with someone who could perform miracles—verifiable, right-in-front-of-your-eyes miracles? It would just blow the top off the joint. But at the same time, I’m sure we’d find some way to commodify it.
Read MoreJudge Not
By Poetry Issue 106
A History of Everything According to God
By Poetry Issue 106
The first moment
is this moment,
this one right now.
A Conversation with Lorna Goodison
By Interview Issue 104
Laughter is one way in which I experience God, and so I want to write about the ways in which I am sometimes lucky to experience the divine, as friend. A friend who makes you laugh out loud, and who makes you weep. I’m a weeper, and that too is a gift from God.
Read MoreCaedmon’s Music
By Poetry Issue 103
To sing of origins is to set a course
to anoint a present where cows and angels
cowherds and shepherd kings
all shine in heaven’s light
1983
By Poetry Issue 103
That first morning, I remember
clinging to a table’s edge—
both legs jackhammering the white
linoleum floor tiles—praying for
my benzodiazepine to finally,
finally kick in.