The forsythia outside my window has given up the brilliant citrus yellow and is fading back to the sticky green leaves. I am trying to hold a dull panic at bay. My aim is to steady myself, my nerves. I do not want to doom scroll exhaustively, rants and laments of our country’s frightening descent into chaos. Look out your window, I tell myself. Write about the forsythia’s brave first burst that ushers in the redbuds’ purple halo. See the lime green of spring grass and tiny leaves. In Dostoevsky’s The Brothers’ Karamazov, Ivan, the … Continue reading Ars Poetica by Trudy Hale→
The annual contest is a big event here at Streetlight‘s essay/memoir section. We never know what our invitation is going to bring, but it’s always interesting. This year we’ve been especially fortunate. Our first prize winner is Christopher Ghattas. His brilliant essay, “Final Thoughts,” is at once a narrative, a reaction, and a meditation, full of sharp wisdom and surprising humor. Our second prize winner, Ruth Knesevich, takes her inspiration “From a Persian Kitchen.” In an essay both culinary and emotional, she brings us the essence of a rich culture. It’s a culinary delight. Third … Continue reading We Have Winning Essays by Susan Shafarzek→
What is the color of irony? This may be a silly notion, but we have given color designations to various kinds of writing. Yellow Journalism (today’s Clickbait) was a term given to (mostly) eye-catching newspaper headlines and sensationally exaggerated stories. Purple Prose describes overly ornate or elaborate writing which draws attention to itself by excessive use of adjectives, adverbs, and contorted metaphors to the detriment of the message. Blue Prose is writing of a decidedly vulgar nature relying on overly sexual suggestion. But there are some positive colors as well! They may not be as … Continue reading Our Age of Irony by Fred Wilbur→
I am leery of ancestor worship, but the more I research the history of my great-great grandfather, Asa Fowler, the more I find admirable about him. He was born the youngest of a dozen children on a farm in Pembroke, N.H. in the year 1811. A sickly boy, he was only able to do light farm work, and it was determined early on that he should become a teacher. So, he was sent to the local academy in Pembroke, where he turned out to be an excellent student. After leaving the academy, Asa went to … Continue reading Asa Fowler by Miles Fowler→
Like a lot of people, I’ve dealt with health issues my whole life. I have cystic fibrosis, which comes with a cornucopia of symptoms, like deteriorating ability to breathe, IV antibiotics, collapsed lungs, port-a-caths and, oh right, a double lung transplant. I’ve done my best to roll with the punches, especially after being given a second chance at life, but then, a few months ago at forty-two, I woke up completely unable to control my hand. I’m not sure if the fact that my limp hand was completely useless was just so weird, or because … Continue reading Comfort in the Unknown by Emily Littlewood→
I ready myself to read poetry for a group of graduate students. They’ve had the ingenuity to find an old, abandoned chapel near campus and turn it into a poetry space. Eavesdropping from a pew, I find myself listening once again to choruses of before; before the first published book, before marriages and mortgages and self-support. There are lots of munchies—I’ve forgotten how hungry students are, how irregular the meals. There are students reading poems from phones rather than spiral notebooks, whose edges might as well be the coiling of years between us. There is … Continue reading A Place to Hold Us by Sharon Perkins Ackerman→
She said she knew that it was Father’s Day in the U.S. and she began to tell me a story from the back seat as we bounced down rough dirt roads on the way to the church. I twisted in the passenger seat to watch her face even though the streets of Bujumbura were a captivating sight. Three-wheeled tuk-tuks competed with overladen bicycles and military trucks for space between deep ditches. A man walked along the side of the road with a stack of foam mattresses on his head, seven high. Another navigated his bike … Continue reading Father’s Day in Bujumbura by Alex Joyner→
I grew up in Ukraine, the heart of the freedom-loving Cossacks, surrounded by the rich cultural heritage of my people who had a strong influence on my artistic path. My interest in art began at a young age, soaking up the diverse visual images I encountered on a daily basis. Instead of formal art classes, I learnt on the streets, where vibrant graffiti and street art became my school. I travelled extensively, absorbing the diverse art styles of the places I lived in, including Israel and the UK. My journey in art began with … Continue reading The Varied Works by Matthew Morpheus→
Poem, come in, sit down. How are you getting along? Are people reading your ordinary troubles? Let’s talk about that. (I hear my fatherly voice: pledged to do no harm.) Let’s first talk about your literal surface. The reader can’t know a poem at first glance, by appearances, I assure you. Don’t worry about snap judgements. You look comfortable on the page today. Is that safe to say? You might be a narrative, let’s say, or a description, a reminiscence, an emotional plea, a philosophical dialectic perhaps, or a political screed. Want to talk about … Continue reading Questions to Ask a Poem by Fred Wilbur→
Coming down from the redwood forest, where majestic trees defy rusted Coke signs and dead gas stations, we drive, curve after curve, in daylight darkness, with flashes of sunlight through the deep green. Then the dream fades as the landscape diminishes into dry grasses, straighter roads, and the offer of something to eat somewhere you wouldn’t want to go. An exit sign emerges, “Ferndale,” and I remember hearing about a hidden Victorian village. So we turn off the main road because that often seems like the right thing to do. But there is no immediate … Continue reading Lily is Safe by Elisa Wood→
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