Articles

  • Oct 22, 2024 | kirkusreviews.com | Paisley Rekdal |Steve Martin |Harry Bliss |Amy Tan

    Wise words about how we can become better readers. A professor’s guide to understanding the craft of poetry.

  • Jun 18, 2024 | poetryfoundation.org | Paisley Rekdal

    How horrible it is, how horrible that Cronenberg film where Goldblum’s trapped with a fly inside his Material Transformer: bits of the man emerging gooey, many-eyed; bits of the fly worrying that his agent’s screwed him— I almost flinch to see the body later that’s left its fly in the corner, I mean the fly that’s left its body, recalling too that medieval nightmare, Resurrection, in which each soul must scurry to rejoin the plush interiors of its flesh, pushing through, marrying...

  • May 15, 2024 | yahoo.com | Paisley Rekdal

    Paisley RekdalMay 15, 2024 at 5:29 PM·1 min readOf this town once built from redwoods trekkedfrom the cold Sierras, nothing’s left. Just bitsof aqueduct lost by the roundhouse, an outlineridge of knuckled barrows, glass chips violetfrom a century of sun. Fists of clinker,and on the berm’s west side, the ghostly hollowsof Chinese dugouts whose perimeter I traceaccording to the wreckage. Shatteredwhiskey bottles.

  • May 8, 2024 | orionmagazine.org | Paisley Rekdal

    Chionophilia: a longing for snow. Sirens shatter through my windows, blue and red, the color of a headache. Frontogenesis:zones of air pressure and temperatures strengthening. An hour ago, I drove by the lake, waved past by police. I’m not telling you anything you can’t find out yourself. I live close to what produces its own weather, warmthdesalinated into crystals that melt the packed ice of our streets.

  • Nov 13, 2023 | switchyardmag.com | Taylor Le |Paisley Rekdal

    By Paisley RekdalOnce, there were three. Now only twosurvive, the third’s sawtooth comb of bloodfeathering the walk. Still, its nestmates call and call. To drive it backto them. To locate themselves against its answer,their safety. No answer. I watched that one, once-living hawk paste itself to my gutter, mothwings drooping as its thin claws scrabbled at the metal,the long neck pulsing uselesslywith hunger—           Didn’t it seemlike a gift at firstto watch these hawks become themselves?

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