Written to mark the bicentennial of Whitman’s birth, my poems operate within that lacuna, occupying the dissonant threshold between Whitman’s optimistic vision for America, “out of hopeful green stuff woven,” and my own personal history.
Poet Afaa M. Weaver explores his ancestors’ ability to maintain loving structures despite the pressures of slavery.
The next morning I was discussing My Bondage
What started out as just wanting to make a few paintings of whales ultimately became an eight-year project, with still no end in sight.
Jill McDonough explores the pains–explicit and suppressed–suffusing early American culture.
The importance of clarity—of, as a white writer, being crystal clear about what I was saying, particularly in regard to indigenous languages and history—led me toward prose.
Women poets were under-recognized experts and artists in the forms associated with their homes and neighborhoods, the realms where they held power and influence.
How did a nineteenth-century woman of means accomplish so much, unhampered and unassisted by a husband, and what sort of life did this strong-willed woman live?
Those Americans will, I am afraid, still fleece you. —John Keats in a letter to his brother George living in Louisville, Kentucky, 1819.