Liza Katz Duncan

Jul 22, 2024 | memoirland.substack.com | Liza Katz Duncan |Natalie Jabbar |Mike McClelland |Melody Glenn

Welcome to Memoir Land—a newsletter edited by , now featuring four verticals:Memoir Monday, a weekly curation of the best personal essays from around the web brought to you by Narratively, The Rumpus,  Granta, Guernica, Oldster Magazine, Literary Hub, Orion Magazine, The Walrus, and Electric Literature. Below is this week’s curation. First Person Singular, featuring original personal essays. Recently I reprinted “Without Repentance, No Forgiveness” by .

Jul 16, 2024 | therumpus.net | Liza Katz Duncan

It’s a Sunday morning in April 2021, a few days after Earth Day. I’ve just arrived at the Gateway National Recreation Area, a narrow crescent between the Sandy Hook Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. It’s drizzling, and the Twin Lights Historic Site is barely visible through a scrim of fog.

Jun 18, 2024 | full-stop.net | Liza Katz Duncan

“You Cannot Go on Flinching”: A Conversation with Cynthia Marie HoffmanCynthia Marie Hoffman’s Exploding Head is a courageous memoir-in-poems recounted in snapshots from the life of a speaker with obsessive-compulsive disorder, as she learns to hold space for the daily realities of living in a complicated brain without letting it overtake her.

Apr 6, 2024 | poets.org | Donika Kelly |Liza Katz Duncan |Arthur Sze

Skip to main contentFind and share the perfect poems. late spring wind sounds an ocean through new leaves. later the same wind sounds a tide. later still the dry sound of applause: leaves chapped falling, an ending. this is a process. the ocean leaping out of ocean should be enough. the wind pushing the water out of itself;the water catching the lightshould be enough. I think this on the deck of one boatthen another. I think this in the Salish, thought it in Stellwagenin the Pacific.

Dec 18, 2023 | poetryfoundation.org | Liza Katz Duncan

And maybe this is all we get: a chilly evening,            5:30 and the sun should still be out. Instead October’s                       Full Blood Moon has come and gone over the hospital parking lot. The crickets’ warning song            has already begun. My body, we’ve learned, has forgotten again what to carry and what            to discard, like those owl pellets we dissected in the fourth grade:                       here the jaw, there the shoulder blade of some smaller creature.