This first issue of Ploughshares 40th anniversary volume year features selections of poetry and p... more This first issue of Ploughshares 40th anniversary volume year features selections of poetry and prose made by award-winning writer Colm Tibn, including new work from poets such as Eavan Boland, Nick Laird, Paul Muldoon, CK Williams, and Bruce Bond, and prose writers Tessa Hadley, Thomas Mallon, Rabih Alameddine, Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough, and Hester Kaplan, among others. The volume also includes a profile by Toibin, an introduction by Tibn, the reprint of an archival interview with Seamus Heaney, book reviews, and more.
Though naturally I love them they are a monstrosity, acute and unruly, already pigheaded on the w... more Though naturally I love them they are a monstrosity, acute and unruly, already pigheaded on the way from the airport to come and infect me with what kind of mayonnaise is better than Hellmann’s and which of us got the new bike versus who crashed the old and who’s drinking too much versus who ought to get the special WeightWatchers brownies and who isn’t on that plan but really should be and whose kid is in what university versus whose kid is in which other. Yes I love them but they talk too much about nothing because they are after pulling me out of the stillness I came up North for because in their opinion I’ve always been too faraway starting in the ’70s like an anonymous planet up in my room while they all sat around downstairs vehement on the topic of everything I was missing because after all it was just the hearth— just the kids pouring juice and telling jokes while the scant one upstairs plotted some wraithlike escape like could she become some kind of particle? Could she float out to sea maybe on a raft of splintered pillars? This is part of the story of my people who won’t say much but rigorously chatter about global warming and formaldehyde and cancer and Hemingway and Peter Jennings and Bush who we despise because he is a killer. My people are not killers—they are romantics— they like to sit around on porches and tell false stories because lies are more agreeable than me eyeing them haughtily and saying as a matter of fact, though I’m forced to do it because we’re almost out of time, O my highhilled, prattling sweethearts—O my brothers and sisters of hoodwink and swindle and fiddle and twaddle and drivel and hokum and tripe.
This first issue of Ploughshares 40th anniversary volume year features selections of poetry and p... more This first issue of Ploughshares 40th anniversary volume year features selections of poetry and prose made by award-winning writer Colm Tibn, including new work from poets such as Eavan Boland, Nick Laird, Paul Muldoon, CK Williams, and Bruce Bond, and prose writers Tessa Hadley, Thomas Mallon, Rabih Alameddine, Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough, and Hester Kaplan, among others. The volume also includes a profile by Toibin, an introduction by Tibn, the reprint of an archival interview with Seamus Heaney, book reviews, and more.
Though naturally I love them they are a monstrosity, acute and unruly, already pigheaded on the w... more Though naturally I love them they are a monstrosity, acute and unruly, already pigheaded on the way from the airport to come and infect me with what kind of mayonnaise is better than Hellmann’s and which of us got the new bike versus who crashed the old and who’s drinking too much versus who ought to get the special WeightWatchers brownies and who isn’t on that plan but really should be and whose kid is in what university versus whose kid is in which other. Yes I love them but they talk too much about nothing because they are after pulling me out of the stillness I came up North for because in their opinion I’ve always been too faraway starting in the ’70s like an anonymous planet up in my room while they all sat around downstairs vehement on the topic of everything I was missing because after all it was just the hearth— just the kids pouring juice and telling jokes while the scant one upstairs plotted some wraithlike escape like could she become some kind of particle? Could she float out to sea maybe on a raft of splintered pillars? This is part of the story of my people who won’t say much but rigorously chatter about global warming and formaldehyde and cancer and Hemingway and Peter Jennings and Bush who we despise because he is a killer. My people are not killers—they are romantics— they like to sit around on porches and tell false stories because lies are more agreeable than me eyeing them haughtily and saying as a matter of fact, though I’m forced to do it because we’re almost out of time, O my highhilled, prattling sweethearts—O my brothers and sisters of hoodwink and swindle and fiddle and twaddle and drivel and hokum and tripe.
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