Ice Wine

Awoken before the roosters crow
A cloudless sky displays
the frosty stars above.
Clouds of vapor form
with each exhalation.
Leaves shatter below
our rubbered feet.
Gloved fingers grasp
delicate jade marbles.
A smooth swoop and
a thunk into the
wooden trellis.
Headlamps reveal the
hidden jewels, their
inorganic light forming
a lite-bright among
the darkened rows.
Sweat beads below
woolen hats.
Row after row,
the frozen gems
are collected for
their sweetness.
The roosters begin to wake,
as the sky turns orange
over the hills.
Until the next season.

Journal Review - The Paris Review

1. Editor, Publisher, etc.
Editor: Philip Gourevitch
Deputy Editor: Matt Weiland
Managing Editor: Caitlin Roper
Senior Editors: Christopher Cox, Nathaniel Rich
Poetry Editors: Dan Chiasson, Meghan O’Rourke
Paris Editor: Susannah Hunnewell
Advisory Editors: Sarah Fay, Gilles Peress
Readers: Kate Angus, Jeb Burt, Ian Ingram, Kalpana Narayanan
Publisher: Antonio Weiss
Past Publishers: Bernard F Conners, Ron Dante, Drue Heinz, Deborah Pease
Founding Publisher: Sadruddin Aga Khan

2. How often does the review come out?
Quarterly

3. The journals aesthetic
Neuveau chic.

4. Where does the journal publish?
New York, NY

5. What are the magazines submission guidelines?
All submissions must be submitted by mail and not electronically. All submissions must be in English and previously unpublished. Translations are accepted and should be accompanied by their original text. Simultaneous submission is allowed, however the Paris Review must be notified immediately if the manuscript is published elsewhere. Phone and email contact information must also be provided. It is suggested that those who wish to submit work should familiarize themselves with several issues of the Paris Review to gain a firm grasp of the type of material the magazine publishes. If you wish to have your manuscript returned you should include postage for a return.

Poetry: Should be mailed to the poetry editor at the journals address in New York. No more than six poems can be submitted at one time. The journal does not accept poetry submissions between June and August.

Short Story: Should be mailed to the fiction editor at the Paris Review in New York. No more than one short story can be submitted at one time.

Currently there are no submission guidelines for the oral history and the photography.

6.What does the journal publish?
Poetry
Short Stories
Interviews
Photography
Oral History

7.A piece the exemplifies the magazine
Old Apples
Coma of cold storage
Against the sweetening
Orchard – white petals
Wet dirt, shoots, dingy bees –
Last year’s apples
Comestible (just)
Faded Ted Williamses
Kept crisp at thirty-two
Point nine degrees
Because we change
Always, reckless wonders
Into the graspable
If superfluous item
To eat or to wear
Thus explaining
Among much else
Why the average vernal apple-eater
Is so quick to hate
A happy woman who likes to fuck.

- Beau Friedlander

8.A piece the you’re glad you found
a.Together Again (p. 87)

The Ceilidh

Once upon a time in the kingdom of Fife (yes, there is really such a place) there was a fair-skinned lass named Catriona and a young gent named Murray. One day in 1999, they met at an ice hockey game of the Fife Flyers, I wasn’t there so I’m not sure how it all went down, but I can imagine it was romantic in that 14-year old kind of way. You know, Murray awkwardly approaching Catriona and offering her his Iron Bru and some Walker’s shortbread. So here I am nine years later from that momentous occasion and trying not to roll my ankle as I walk up the gravel drive in 3-inch heels. Fiona and Malcolm had been amazing and picked me up at the Markinch rail station and the three of us made our way to the Balmeney House. My irritation at the little pebbles threatening to ruin my ankles melted away as we walked up the front steps of the manor house. The tan building infront of us a powerful building of times gone by, welcoming the wedding goers through its giant mouth. The red carpet up the step was the tongue leading into the belly of the beast. The wail of the bagpipe welcomes us to the event.
We are ushered into the ceremony hall, where a loud “PLATZER” is heard before I see a dark haired and hat-wearing Hannah running toward me. I’m enveloped in her embrace before I can say hello. Her hair is shorter from the last time I saw her, her labret gone, and she looks like she’s rested (the first time in I don’t know how long). Fiona and Malcolm each receive their mandatory hugs before we are shepherded to our seats by the women in suit vests. A mixture of friends and family fill the rows, those in full Scottish attire, some in pseudo-Scottish attire (they wish they were Scottish), women with simple hats and those with elaborate designs often seen at Ascot, and then those with no hats. The piper leads the wedding party, followed by the justice, parents of the bride and groom, the groom and then the bridesmaids and then finally the bride. Catriona in her sparkling full-length wedding gown, carrying the seasonal flowers of the Scottish autumn, looks like she is about to start giggling at any moment. We sit and listen to the wedding vows and announcements, I can hardly see over a silver mesh hat with incredibly long feathers protruding from it. When all is said and done and the marriage official has corrected the signing of the bride and groom and the entire room has erupted in a fit of giggles, we are ushered out to the front steps to be photographed. I’m pretty sure you can see me behind the enormous pillar of sandstone.
We return to the warmth and comfort of the drawing rooms and bar, filling our stomachs with fruit cider (not the kind we have in the States) and sugar dusted shortbread. The snacks and drinks scream Catriona and Murray and their sweet tooth, but the down time allows us to mingle with other St. Andrews graduates in attendance. It is fantastic to finally see Hannah, Charlotte and Louise. Fiona, Hannah and I reminisce about times in two Alfred Place, lamenting at the absence of Lynsey, who is down in Oz shooting films about Toto and women in stripped stockings wearing red shoes. The nostalgia comes flooding out and stories long forgotten are resurfaced. Fiona explains to Malcolm, “See! I told you Hannah was a little crazy.” To which Hannah takes no offence and makes a Little Britain reference. The laughter that filled our home is brought back and it feels great to see everyone again. Hannah regales us with her trip on the train to come to the wedding. She started her journey at 6:30 am in jeans and a sweater, changing into tights, dress, pumps, make up and complete with hat pinned into her hair in the bathroom of a Virgin Train. We all believe the feat is that of one of Superman’s, how ever did he change in the tiny space of a telephone booth?
Eventually we fill out wish cards to attach to the wish tree for Catriona and Murray, the modern day equivalent of a guest book. We then make our way down to the dining room, where we must locate our table, __________. The dinner is not much different from any other wedding I had been to thus far, the embarrassing speech from the best man, the loving speeches of fathers and mothers and bridesmaids. I’m really antsy to get dancing though and cannot wait for the tables to be cleared and the band to set up.
When they finally do clear the tables and prepare the dance floor, the ceilidh band begins to set up. The bandleader it looks like is wearing a completely tartan suit, which we press Malcolm to find out where he got it from. The instruments come out one by one, first the drums, then the fiddle, then the bodhran, and finally the accordion. While they warm up, Craig and Malcolm discuss the appropriate time to remove ones jacket and bowtie. Once the music begins people are restrained in their willingness to dance, clearly not enough alcohol has been consumed yet. Then the first couple walks up to the dance floor, the man in his late 50’s wearing the bright red tartan of the Campbell clan and his partner in a lovely modern dress. They are soon followed by partners of all ages, in various forms of traditional wear.
The first dance of the evening is the Highland Barn Dance, the couple form a circle with the men on the inside and women on the right side of them. The couples move three steps forward and hop, then turn around and take three steps backwards and hop. The men move two steps into the circle, while the women move two steps toward the edge, a clap, then both return to their partners and hold in a ballroom dance, and skip to the man’s left for two steps. To finish off the round the partners polka for four steps anticlockwise around the circle. This is repeated over and over, and partners always get the counting wrong and end up running into nearby couples, but then again it wouldn’t be a ceilidh if you didn’t get run into another couple.
The band follows up a Gay Gordons, the Virginia Reel, and the Circassian Circle. Craig and I join in during the Gay Gordons, similar to the Highland Barn dance only four steps forward and backward instead of three and more spinning than the Barn dance. This is always an easier dance to learn as a virgin to ceilidh dancing, because the steps aren’t very complicated. It also serves well as a warm up dance to break into, what you know will be more complicated dances. By the end of the Virginia Reel my feet are throbbing from the heels and they are quickly discarded below a table. A quick glance around the room reveal high heels strewn about the floor, the accessories of the kilt the sgian dubh are no longer safely in the side of the wool socks but in the sporran and the laces Ghillie broghues have come down. We swelter from the thicker autumnal wear and excess physical activity. Mascara lines dark circles below our eyes, what ever glow I had at the start of the evening is no longer there, it is replaced by a more pungent shimmer of perspiration.
The final song the band plays is the Strip the Willow, one of the most popular ceilidh songs out there. As though magic the announcement of the song invigorated almost all of the wedding guests to the dance floor. Extra tables were pushed aside to make room for the incredibly long lines of couples. The tablecloths now stained with wine and beer from spilled drinks, empty pint glasses decorated the tabletops. Shoes and jackets were off, this was serious business. Craig grabbed my hand and pulled me in line opposite him. The accordion player explained the steps slowly for good measure, although everyone already knew the point of the dance. Catriona and Murray lead the line of men and women and began their 16 spins at the top of the line. Her white dress spread around, swirling dervish style. Murray’s kilt lifting up held down only by the sporran. They split and turn to the next person in the line to spin once and then meet in the middle again to spin, they continue along the line. The next couple takes their turn at the head of the lines and begins their 16-spin start. Kilts lift with momentum, threatening to expose a full Scotsman. The next couple goes, and the ones after them and so forth until Craig and I are at the lead.
We meet in the middle and my right arm crosses my left to grab his hands and we begin to spin. Faster and faster, the bottom of my dress spins around me like a flying saucer. Faster still, until my feet no longer touch the wooden floor. I focus on Craig’s face to keep from being dizzy. The neon-colored lights from the band swirl around me, blurring in my peripheral vision. Everything begins to spin; I can’t tell if it is the alcohol finally taking its toll or the swift movement of the dance. We separate and I stumble to find my next partner, thrown back into the middle, Craig and I spin once more. I break away to find my next spinner, who is taller and swiftly picks me up off the floor as we spin around in a circle. We continue between the two lines of couples, spinning and breaking away. The musicians pick up the pace and we move faster and faster down the line. Spin, break away, spin, break away, spin. The balls of my feet are burning at the end of the line, as though I’ve just walked across hot coals.
When we finish along the line, we join our respective gender or partner lines and wait for the following couple to arrive. The musicians begin to slow the pace and finally finish the song. The room erupts in cheering and applause, the crowds shouting for another song. Yet it is late and the pumpkin hour is approaching. The band packs up their instruments with care and the neon lights shut down. The crowd separates off to find our personal belongings scattered about the hall. I locate one shoe under the “Ich Liebe Dich” table and my other under the “Jag alskar dig” table. I collapse into a chair as I attempt to place my feet into my shoes; Craig squats beside me and eases my sore toes into my slippers. “Thank you prince Charming”, I say. “My lady I believe our carriage awaits”, he replies. We locate Catriona and Murray to say our good byes and find out their honeymoon location. Egypt for two weeks. Our final 2 Alfred Place photo tells of the fantastic night we had. “I’m not sure when I’ll see you next Smith, but hopefully sooner rather than later”, I say as I give Catriona a hug. “We’ll have a proper Alfoot reunion when Lynsey is back and you can fly over again”, Catriona responds. In true ball style the carriages awaited us at midnight and we retired to our chambers with dances of kilts in our heads.

Chef's House (alt. ending)

Chef’s House (alternate ending)

One afternoon Wes was in the yard pulling weeds when Chef drove up in front of the house. I was in the kitchen mixing lemonade. I could hear the gravel beneath Chef’s big truck before I looked out the window. A town police car followed Chefs truck up the drive. The sun was high in the sky clear and skies provided uninterrupted views of the dunes. Wes stood up and cupped his hand above his eyes to see who was approaching. He rested his tools on the ground and walked toward the two vehicles.

Chef and two officers meandered up the path to meet Wes. They shook hands. I pushed through the screen door as they came walking up the steps. I don’t want to ruin your weekend folks, Chef said as they approached the door. But we just want to alert you to the presence of two men on the run from the law, the officer said. An incident had occurred in town and the two suspects were still to be caught. What kind of incident, I asked. A family was found murdered three days ago, responded the officer avoiding eye contact. Wes took of his hat and held it in his hands as he too cast his eyes downward. We want you to be aware of the situation and if you see anyone come through these here woods you’ll let us know, the officer explained. Of course they will. I was just going to show the officer here the path down to the stream, Chef said, pointing toward the opening in the woods at the other end of the yard. We were there yesterday morning and nothing seemed out of the ordinary, Wes replied, but have a look.

Chef and the officer turned and walked down the yard toward the woods. Wes, I don’t have such a great feeling about this, what if those men come through the woods and find the house, I said. Wes put his arm around me and looked toward the entrance to the woods. We went into the house to get some lemonade and wait for Chef and the officer.
I hope they find those men soon, I said sitting down on the sofa.
We’ll just have to keep our eyes open and make sure we lock the doors at night, Wes said leaning toward the back window to look at the woods. He started pacing around the house, going from room to room, opening doors and closets and closing them again.
Wes, Chef and the officer will let us know if they find something out there. No use worrying about it until we hear something, I said.

I think we should get some protection, said Wes looking out front.
Let’s wait and see what happens, take it easy Wes, I said.
Maybe a gun or a baseball bat. Then I won’t be accused of anything. Shovel. Wes said to himself.
He kept looking out the window, thinking. Wes finished off his lemonade in one big gulp and went in the kitchen to fix another.
Why didn’t they tell us sooner, Wes said coming back into the living room.
I don’t know. Come sit, I’ve been in here all day I would have noticed if someone had come in, I said.
Wes sat next to me on the sofa and I rested my head against his shoulder. He put his arm around me. I’m scared, I said. We’ll be alright, he said, they’ll catch those men.
I wonder what happened to that family. I said. It is so awful. Why would anyone do something like that?
I don’t know, but I wonder if it was reported in the newspaper, Wes said getting up to find the most recent paper. He came back with yesterday’s paper. The front page was titled Murder in Small Town! Wes read the article to himself. Looks like it was a family with two young children and it was a very violent crime, Wes said. I looked out the window, thinking. We’ll just have to make sure we always lock the doors, Wes said.
Yes, and we will have to stay awake when we go fishing by the stream, I said.
I’m relaxed here, I don’t want to worry about this, Wes said.
I know, this house has been a safe place for you, I said
If they come, they’ll get a piece of my mind, he said.
Calm down, I said, they are dangerous criminals.
Who are in our house, he said.
Chef’s house, I said.
Right, he said, rubbing his hands on his pants. He got up from the sofa and walked to the kitchen window. Chef and the officer were walking back up from the woods to the house. Wes went out to meet them on the porch. I followed Wes. Well folks, the officer said, we didn’t find anything today. Oh good, I said. But we’d like to keep an eye on it, if that’s alright with you, the officer asked. Not a problem, right Wes, Chef said giving Wes a pat on the shoulder. No, of course come by when you need, Wes said. Please give us a call anytime you feel something has changed around here, the officer said. Will do officer, Wes said. They shook hands and the office got into his police car. Wes, Chef, and I watched him drive off. Thanks for your help, Wes, Chef said, let me know if there is anything I can do to help you. I think we’re all right for now, Wes said.
This is pretty scary stuff eh, Chef said.
It is, Wes said.
Hopefully they’ll catch them soon, Chef said.
Yes, I hope so, Wes said.
I should go. Keep an eye out and lock your doors, Chef said.
Will do, thanks for stopping by, Wes said.
Well if you folks feel nervous about staying here, we can figure something out, Chef said.
No, we like it here, Wes said.
With that Chef got in his truck and drove off toward the freeway. Wes collected the garden tools in the yard. I went inside to start dinner. Wes came in and locked the door behind him.

The Zipper

If you ask me how this all happened I don’t exactly know, all I know it the before and after. The before started at five on a regular Saturday morning, Dean, Alex and I headed along Route 65, the red dust flying in our wake. When we left the apartment the stars still shone above, guiding us forward. Alex had come well prepared with a thermos of strong coffee and bagels. Dean was blasting Journey’s Don’t stop Believin’ through the stereo, and we were all singing along. I sat in the back stuffing my face as I watched the outlines of cacti. Behind us the sun was peeking near the horizon, a purple haze leading the way.

We reached our favorite spot, just as the lights in the sky were being turned off one by one. It was a quiet Saturday morning and only a singular silver truck was parked at the base of the red wall in front of us. Two other climbers were unloading their gear next to the silver truck. We extracted ourselves from Dean’s car and began unloading ropes, harnesses, bags of carabineers, chalk bags, climbing shoes, and the cooler of beer (for post climb of course!). Alex and I double-checked our gear as we went along.

We paused to glance up at the deep red wall ahead of us, each taking turns to point out where we wanted to climb or avoid. We all agreed to pause at the halfway ledge for rest and water, knowing full well that by the time we reached the ledge and the top, the midday Arizona sun would be ferocious. I led my usual stretching routine; Alex and Dean attempted to follow. I found a great spot to boulder and warm up and went at it. My taped fingers grasping the red mounds in front of me, hoisting myself upward, my toes pushing against the boulder, sans footholds. My tired body, waking every muscle I could ever think of. I made my way up the boulders, bringing my feet closer to my hands and then pushing upward and then repeating. After bouldering down, I started on lateral movement, forcing myself to stay as close to the wall as possible. I reached away to my left my left foot finding a place hold about four feet away, a great split movement, pushing off my right big toe, my right side rejoined the left. My front was covered in red dust as I hopped down to the ground.

The hills were bright orange by then and we could feel the sun heating up the earth below our feet. The other climbers had begun their climb, I could spot them clipping in and moving upward. They had great form, sticking close to the wall, moving legs first then arms, four-limbed spiders, their ropes descending like a silk web.

After our warm up, we stripped down from out sweats and thermal tops. I had volunteered to lead the route; placing hexcentric clips into the wall to safely guide us upward. We reviewed the planned route one more time and I then I was off with a bag of chalk and hexcentrics clipped to the back of my harness. My fingers found the first hold easily and I pushed myself upward off the wall with my toes. After about four feet I found a crack to place the first hex into, climbing further upward, pausing every four feet to place hexcentrics. My rope followed me, bouncing off the wall underneath me. The visible footholds were becoming less frequent and I had to delicately balance against the smooth wall surface, using my arms more than I liked to.

I heard Alex call up that she has hooked in and was making her way up. I could feel her weight at the end of the rope and I shouted to Dean for more rope. I could see the half way ledge about 30 feet ahead of me. My arms ached from reaching, my hands cracked and sliced, and chalk powdered my face. Just make it to the ledge and you can rest, I told myself. I thought of the water in my bottle, sitting and letting my arms relax. I was looking forward to watching the sunshine through the cinnamon rock arch. The sun had begun beating against the wall, warming the soil in my hands. I reached back with my left arm for some more chalk, the fingers on my right hand firmly grasping a small hold. I heard a faint crumbling sound and looked up to see the source of the noise.

Now here I am, three months, three surgeries, and two physical therapists later. I sit out on my deck looking toward the deep red hills at sunset and think about that climb, and those before it. Recalling the snow capped mountains in New Hampshire, spotting a cougar in the Rockies, and the red dust of Arizona. My hands are no longer dry and cracked, I never knew my fingernails could be long and shapely. My calluses on my palms have disappeared. The fine outline of muscle along my back has faded and only my arms continue to work.

I have learned to rely upon my arms to propel me forward. For now I ignore the fatigue that plagues my thin arms, I just want to move upward not backward. Of course I wish I could be climbing instead of sitting here listening to Lucy, instruct me on the proper form of lifting oneself. I’ve lost my adrenaline rush and the uninterrupted view for miles and miles of desert with no one to bother you about your pain levels of the day.

Some say I’m lucky; that surviving a zipper fall is a rarity. Lucky is not the word I would choose to describe my situation. My toes will never grasp for holds, I will never push off my legs to move up a wall, and I will never shimmy up a squeeze chimney.

I long for the days of strong coffee and bagels at five in the morning.

An Ethical Divide

Confused and unsure
We’re not quite sure where we stand.
I know his stance, but
Does he know mine.
One part of me says how cruel it is
The other sees the necessity of it.
Neither likes to see suffering
My work requires it to
Better understand
Extremists destroy our ability
To provide cures.
Will he understand
How will I explain.
My friends think I am
This way because of my beliefs
When in reality, it is
because I can’t tolerate it.
His lifestyle is based upon
His own set of values.
Will one set of values be shared.
Can an understanding be found.
Common ground will fill the divide.

The Proposal

The rain pounded the pavement, rushing to the drains where it could.  Marcy pulled her raincoat up against her neck to shield herself from the downpour.  A quick glance at her watch told her she had five minutes to get to class.  She paused at the edge of the sidewalk to avoid the approaching car speeding along the road.   At the entrance to Shattuck Hall, Marcy met Claire shaking off her umbrella.

“Lovely morning we’re having,” Marcy remarked reaching for the door.

“Nothing like November weather to appreciate going home for Thanksgiving,” Claire answered following Marcy into the building. 

“Just one more week until break.  Are you going home or staying with your Aunt?”

“Home sweet home, this time.  I love my Aunt, but Wilbraham isn’t New York.  Plus, Charlie will be home from Dartmouth and Rob is on leave.  What are you doing?”

“Home for the holiday, and then to Boston to meet Ewan’s parents for the weekend.”

“Not terrible. Here we go, a thrilling lecture on Italian Renaissance Art.  How many altar pieces today?”

“Ten, minimum.”

Claire and Marcy found a pair of seats in the back of the lecture hall just in time for the lights to dim and Professor Starr to project the first slide of Mosaccio’s Holy Trinity. 

An hour later, 50 women emerged from lecture hall, readjusting their eyes to the lit hallways.  Marcy and Claire made their way through the hallways, filled with students reluctant to exit the warmth and dry conditions of the building for the downpour occurring outside.  Accepting the fate that their next class was in the art building, they tugged on their raingear to face the elements.  The temperature seemed to have dropped significantly since first leaving her dorm earlier, and Marcy regretted not wearing thicker tights.  She picked up the pace to reach refuge in the art building.   Claire sensing the urgency, trotted along beside her, content to be dry and warm sooner. 

Early for their 9:30 class, Marcy and Claire joined their classmates by the radiator, adorned with soaking mittens, hats, and scarves.  The topic by the radiator was of the upcoming Thanksgiving break and the locations of departure for the holiday.  New York city, Boston, Concord, Hartford, Portland, Brattleboro, and Nova Scotia were the most exciting places named for the holiday.  Their classroom door opened up and the waiting students filtered into the art studio, dispersing to their cubbies for works in progress.  Miss Bauer, the teacher, had added extra lamps around the studio, providing extra warmth to the normally bare room.  Claire and Marcy set up their easels next to each other, clipping their photographs to the top right hand corner of their canvases. 

“So class, with less than a week until Thanksgiving break, and only two studio classes until that point, I would like you all to complete your paintings before you run off to enjoy home cooked food and long mornings.  Most of you look ready to finish, so don’t be worried.  I look forward to getting a closer look at your completed projects over the break.  We will be starting with a new medium after you return from the break.  Now, I will let you all get on with your work and find a record for today’s class, ” explained Ms. Bauer.  She then wandered off to her office to locate suitable music for the class.

“I’m glad we’ll be starting on a new medium after the break.  I’ve grown bored with this project, I feel we’ve been painting these National Geographic photos for ages,” Marcy remarked, watching Ms. Bauer float around the studio, exotic jewelry announcing her movements.

“Me as well, I don’t know how much longer I can look at this white rhino photo.  I mean are they REALLY white, or is that just a loose term, ” Claire responded.

“Beats me, I only had a semester of biology and we learned about plants for the most part.”

“I know, I’m an art history major, but I sometimes wish I had taken a few more science classes, just to understand what is going on in the news today.  DNA is all over the news these days.  And there is some controversy about who actually found the structure.”

“Really? How so? I spend my days in the library reading about architecture of the past and completely uninformed of what is going on today.”

“Well, apparently a woman, Franklin, found some form of the structure in photos she took, and then these two men, Watson and Crick, are getting most of the credit, while their research is based upon her findings. Or something to that extent.  Isn’t that great, a woman in science?  Just think, one day this school could produce great scientists who go around finding important things.”

“Wow, that is incredible.  Well I’m sure Mount Holyoke is jumping on the Women in Science wagon and already has plans for a new biology building.  That’s great, I’m sure Katie would love to study biology, all she wants to do is be a veterinarian.”

“Ladies, while I’m sure your topic of DNA would be welcome in the biology lab, here you have some work to do.  I don’t mind you chatting as long as you finish your projects before Thanksgiving break.  And from the looks of it Miss Preston, you have quite a bit to do on your rhino, ” cut in Miss Bauer.

“Yes, Miss Bauer.  I was just providing the great news of women in science today, ” Claire replied.  With that Marcy and Claire returned to their paintings for the remainder of the class listening to Bud Powell on the record player. 

Claire and Marcy joined their dorm mates in Pearson’s Hall for lunch, all discussing the torrential downpour, wondering if it would ever let up in the afternoon for P.E. classes.  They speculated the possibility of freezing rain, if the evenings continued on these near freezing temperatures.  The thought of the damp and cold made Marcy tug her sweater sleeves down to her wrists.  Claire and Marcy planned to spend the free hours after lunch in the library working on their French and Italian essays, respectively.

Sitting in the great hall of the library, Marcy situated herself underneath one of the stained glass windows near a radiator.  The language dictionaries and rough drafts formed an arch around her.  Claire seated nearby was mouthing the words of her French essay to herself, scratching out and replacing words as she went along.  The library echoed with papers being shuffled, book trolleys being pushed, the tap tap of the librarians typewriter, and the occasional sneeze.  The rain whipped against the stained glass, threatening to break in and wilt the delicate books into pulp.

Ruth, Marcy’s roommate, shook off the layer of ice which had adhered itself to her rubber boots.  Her hair glittered with icicles, melting from the heat.  Hanging her coat up to dry, Ruth announced, “Well the rain has started to freeze and it’s now flurries.  Winter is officially here.  Time to break out the wool socks and tights.”

“Oh it really isn’t snowing, is it,” responded Marcy lifting the curtain to peek outside.  Seeing the snowflakes float past the window, toward the ground, she pulled her sweater tighter around her, as if to prevent the snow flakes from stealing her warmth.  “Maybe they’ll cancel class tomorrow, if this continues,” she added.  “I would love that, but just in case I am still doing all my work, so if we are lucky enough to have class cancelled tomorrow, I can enjoy the freedom,” Ruth answered pulling her English books from her bag.  Marcy turned back to her art history notes and book, trying to recognize the difference between Bellini and Caravaggio.

Half an hour later, Georgina knocked on the door looking for Marcy.  “Phone call for you Marcy,” she said poking her head in the room.  Marcy slipped out from her desk to follow Georgina back down to the common area, where the dorm phones were located.  Claire was curled on one chair wrapped in a blanket, no doubt on the phone with Charlie in their usual evening phone call.  Finding an empty chair in the corner, Marcy sat down.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me,” Ewan’s familiar voice said.

“Hi!  How are you?  I can’t believe this snow.  Do you think they’ll cancel classes tomorrow?”

“I’m good, how are you?  I don’t know, the coaches were talking about it at practice today.  If it continues to snow like this, I doubt we’ll have the game against Williams tomorrow night.”

“I’m well, just studying and being distracted by the falling snow.  It always seems new to me.  How was practice?  It would be nice to have a snow day tomorrow, it will be like being back at school.”

“ That would be fun.  I know I could use some extra sleep tomorrow.  Say if we don’t have class tomorrow and it clears, I’ll take the bus over and we can have an adventure in the snow.  If you provide hot chocolate, I’ll bring Judy’s donuts.”

“Sounds like a deal to me.  You won’t have hockey practice tomorrow even without class?”

“Probably not, coach lives up in Montague, I doubt he’ll be able to get in, especially it this keeps up.”

“Great, I can’t wait.  Definitely something to make me get all my work done tonight.  Speaking of which I should probably get back to it soon.”

“Alright, yeah I should crack onto some work, can’t procrastinate much longer I guess.  I just wanted to say hi and hope you had a good day.  Also everything is set for next week with my parents.  I told them you would take the bus to Boston on Saturday morning and I’ll meet you there.”

“Yes, that sounds great.  I’m a little nervous about seeing them again, but I’m sure it will be fine. I am really ready for this break to arrive.  Hopefully we will have a snow day tomorrow and we can relax for a bit.”

“I feel the same way, but I hope we can see each other tomorrow either way. Find an adventure somewhere, stay warm.  Maybe find some quiet time before the hectic holiday season begins.  My house will be a madhouse, just as a warning.  Nancy and Phil will be there with the twins, and Kathleen will be home from Bates. Plus my mother’s parents will be staying as well.”

“Okay, no pressure or anything, ha. Alright I really ought to get this work done so that we can see each other tomorrow.”

“Good call, good night.  I love you.”

“Love you too, good night.”

With a click the phone call ended and Marcy got up to stretch her legs.  As she walked out of the common room, she saw Claire still curled up in the chair on the phone.  A nod of acknowledgement as she passed her.  When Marcy returned to her room, she found Ruth curled under her blankets sipping a mug of hot chocolate, the steam disappearing into the chilly air.  Knowing she would most likely fall asleep if she used a similar solution to keep warm, Marcy located her extra quilt to wrap around herself as she sat at her desk.  Back to pictures and notes of baby Jesus surrounded by golden framing. 

The loud ringing of the alarm rocked Marcy out of her deep sleep.  Reluctant to remove the downy duvet, Marcy pulled it further over her head for a quick snooze.  She woke later than she had planned to Ruth jumping up and down in front of the window.  “SNOW! Look at all the snow! It’s all covered, it’s so beautiful,” Ruth exclaimed.  “Huh,” Marcy responded drowsily.  “Come look.  There is no way we will have class today, ” Ruth replied.  Marcy extricated herself from under her warm covers, slipping her feet into the protection of slippers against the cold wooden floor, shimmying up next to Ruth to get a closer look out the window.  A white blanket as far as her eyes could see.  Someone had taken a mold and made snow cars lined up on the street outside.  Clumps of snow drifted from the trees toward the ground.  Whirlwinds of snow drifted along the sidewalks while singular flakes fell toward the ground in front of faces pressed to the glass. 

Rustling and giggles of delight could be heard throughout the dorm as people woke from their sleep to find the entire world outside blanketed in snow.  Friends alerting those who had been slow to wake and rumors of an official snow day began to circulate.  Marcy pulled on a sweater to wander down to the front desk and find the official word on the day’s status.  She was not the only one to want to know the truth behind the rumors, as she walked down the steps a large crowd had formed around the dorm-mother’s desk.  Chatter filled the foyer as the women waited impatiently for the announcement.  Finally, after what seemed for be too long, Mrs. McDougall emerged from her apartment with a note in hand.  The crowd parted like the Red Sea to allow Mrs. McDougall to the front desk.  She was bombarded with questions regarding classes and the day’s events, refusing to answer any questions until she read her announcement. 

“Ladies, I have an announcement regarding the snow and classes from the President,” she rang out.

Silence moved across the crowd, all ears were intent on knowing.

“Friday, November 18^th 1955, all classes will be cancelled for the entire day due to the heavy snow fall.  The dinning halls will be open for regular meal times and hot drinks will be available throughout the day at the following locations: Pearsons Hall, Mary Lyon Hall, and Skinner Hall.  Snowshoes and cross-country skis are available at Blanchard Gymnasium.  Enjoy the three-day weekend; classes will resume to regular schedule on Monday, November 21.  President Ham.”

A cheer of excitement rose from everyone in the hall, followed by clapping and the immediate ideas for ways to spend the free day.  “Well, ladies enjoy the free day, keep warm and come in if you get too cold and wet.  Breakfast will start as usual in about twenty minutes,” Mrs. McDougall replied, posting the note to the bulletin board for all to see.  Marcy ran back up to her room to give Ruth the great news, finding Ruth already wrapped up in her winter clothes ready to explore.  Marcy laughed at the sight of her roommate the size of a marshmallow trying to walk around.  Marcy wasn’t quite ready to embrace the chilly winds of November, and planned a leisurely morning of warm breakfast and a book, at least until the roads were clear enough for the buses to start running. 

Claire came rushing into the room full of energy.  “Did you hear the news? Isn’t it fantastic! An entire day to play in the snow and relax and drink hot chocolate.”

“I did indeed hear the news, I think I’ll keep warm inside for a bit,” Marcy responded smiling at her friend’s obvious merriment.  They headed down to the dinning hall to enjoy the comfort and good spirits filling the dorm.  The talk at the table was about all the options for the day: sleep, read anything non academically related, snowshoeing, finding trays to sled down the hill with, and endless games of mahjong.  Marcy was looking forward to an adventure with Ewan, hopefully off campus.  Nothing like a snow day to give one cabin fever, she thought listening to all the proposed ideas. 

Walking back to her room, Marcy figured Ewan had slept in late enough and would give him a call. 

“Hello, ” a scruffy Ewan managed at the other end.

“Hi, it’s me.  Sleep in late enough?”

“Just five more minutes, please! So I take it since you are calling me at this hour you aren’t in class either.”

“Exactly my dear Watson.  So what kind of adventure are we planning? I’m antsy to get out of the dorm.  The mahjong is already on the tables. Come save me!”

“Hahaha, alright not to worry I’m just going to attempt to get some pastries, and the buses start running in about an hour.  Can you arrange some snowshoes?”

“Sure, peculiar request, but not a problem. Should I bring a thermos too?”

“Yes, good idea, and lots of warm clothes.  Sorry to rush, but I need to get going to get to you as soon as I can.  I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“Great, can’t wait.”

Marcy wandered to Claire’s room in a daze, asking herself: where were they going, what was this adventure that required snowshoes and a thermos.  Surely not a snow picnic, she thought.  She had walked past the open door to Claire’s room and only knocked out of her trance like state, when Claire poked her head out the door to ask Marcy where she was headed.  Sitting in the lounge chair, Marcy recounted her perplexing conversation with Ewan to Claire.  Claire, equally baffled by the request, was stumped for advice.  Claire could only offer to aid Marcy in securing snowshoes and a thermos for the adventure. 

The bus pulled up to the stop just in front of Pearsons Hall, and Ewan was the only passenger to disembark, leaving only the bus driver behind.  Shaking his head at Ewan as he stood in the knee-deep snow, the bus driver pulled the door shut and drove off.  Ewan managed to make his way through the snow to the main entrance to Pearsons Hall, his snow-dusted trousers becoming damp from the melting snow as he entered the warm building.  He found Toni, the student on duty for the front desk, and announced his arrival.  Marcy made her way down the stairs tugging on her winter coat, picking up the snowshoes at the end of the stairs as she walked toward her boyfriend. A quick kiss on the lips, as she weaved her arm into his hooked arm.  “So where are we heading,” she asked blinking her eyes.  “Well there is a bus that is heading toward Northampton in 15 minutes and I thought we could catch that for now, the rest is an adventure,” Ewan answered. “But I thought we needed snowshoes.  The streets of Northampton would surely be cleared by now,” she replied as they walked out the front door, snowshoes in hand. 

After 15 minutes on a slippery bus ride along the hilly road linking South Hadley and Hadley, Ewan indicated their departure in the middle of a field, with just a dirt road leading up to Mount Holyoke, the damaged Summit House impossible to spot in its white surroundings.  Marcy looked up trying to spot the top in the mid-day sun, which had finally made its way out.  Fond memories of past Mountain Days and hiking up the mountain in the summer with Ewan came back to Marcy as she looked around.  The place where they met, Marcy hiking with her friends on a free afternoon in their second year, while Ewan was evading physics at Amherst to breathe in the crisp autumn air.  His gregarious personality and clear interest in a group of three unaccompanied women. 

A snowball grazing her arm brought Marcy back to the current time and Ewan already racing through the powdery snow.  Quickly pulling together artillery, Marcy snuck up on Ewan, pounding his back with snowball after snowball.  A return fire from Ewan lead to Marcy side tackling him, a trick she learned from two older brothers.  Her agility and sneaky tackles always took Ewan by surprise.  The pair slowly made their way up the road leading around the mountain.  Their snowshoes threw a dust of white powder in their wake.  Despite the cold temperatures, their steady movement kept them warm, only chilled on their exposed noses. 

Reaching the summit, made them feel as though they were Edmund Hillary and Tensing Norgay at the top of Mount Everest.  The sunshine lit up the valley below as they looked across the snow-covered landscape.  The snaking Connecticut River cut through the mountains and hills of the Pioneer Valley.  Smoke rose from chimneys all around them, heating the occupants.  A light wind blew across the mountaintops, scattering dustings of snow like fairy dust.  Marcy and Ewan made their way up the rotting steps of the Summit house.  The windows were boarded up years ago and the state had ignored requests for funds to refurbish the deteriorating house.  While this was true for the upper part of the house, the covered balcony was still holding strong and had limited the amount of snow that had landed on the balcony. 

Ewan found a clear spot in the northwest corner of the building.  Drifts of snow hung over the covering.  Snow peaked tops as far as the eye could see past Northampton, the University of Massachusetts, past Deerfield, and into Vermont.  Ewan was thankful the sun had finally peeked out behind the snowy clouds and was illuminating the valley.  He was also relieved to see they were the only ones at the Summit House to enjoy the view and calm. 

Marcy removed her snowshoes as she sat down next to Ewan, releasing a sigh of relief.  The warm aroma of melted chocolate emanated from the thermos as Marcy poured herself a mug.  After some well deserved pastries and hot chocolate, they huddled together to keep warm while enjoying the tranquil afternoon.  Marcy always enjoyed coming here on quiet days.  Having the summit to themselves, made her nostalgic for all the hiking she had accomplished in her three and a half years at Mount Holyoke.  She could see most of the peaks she had climbed from where she was sitting, all of them done with Ewan at various times in their relationship.  They had always managed to find time for Summit house at least once a semester.  “I wish we didn’t have to go back down,” Ewan said breaking the quiet.  “Me too.  I just know the dorm will be a hubbub of people who stayed inside all day, having cabin fever, ” responded Marcy.

“It is so calm up here, it is so much easier to think without people shouting and slamming doors.”

“Oh yes, the library is usually a pretty calm place to work, but not really think.  I get distracted and daydream what is going on around me.”

“Hahaha, you would do that.”

“Oh thanks, ” Marcy said giving Ewan a small shove.

“And I love you because of it.  You bring all the creative juice to this relationship.”

“You do as well.  You thought of this adventure and I just supplied the goods,” lifting the thermos of hot chocolate. 

“Luckily we are both outdoor people and willing to put in a little physical effort.  I don’t think I know anyone else who would have gone snowshoeing up a mountain on a day off.”

“Me either and I am so glad we did.”

“So...uhm… I was…uhm…gonna…”

“Yes,” Marcy prompted, unaccustomed to Ewan struggling for things to say.

“I.. ah…I should start over.”

“Okay…”

“I was going to wait until you came to visit in Boston, but I know how hectic it will be and this seems like a better time to ask. Marcy Harvey, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

“I…ahh…uhmm… wait what?”

“I believe I just asked you to marry me.”

“Oh right… yes… YES, of course.”

“Phew, thought you were going pass out there for a second.”

“It just took me a few minutes to process the words that had come out of your mouth.  Hahahaha”

They embraced and enjoyed the tranquility for a few moments before Marcy brought up the subject of their parents.  Ewan had already told his siblings that he would be asking her at Thanksgiving, and he would announce it to his parents and grandparents when Marcy came to visit them in Boston.  Marcy debated whether to call her family after their return or wait until she went home next week for the holiday.  When the hot chocolate ran out, they decided it was time to head back.  They snow shoed down the mountain in tandem, embracing the remaining calm until they reached the road.  After a few minutes of waiting for a bus and realizing if was probably not going to come, Marcy and Ewan walked along the road to McTully Farm.  As they approached the farm, a truck was pulling out of the driveway, ready to plow again.   Ewan ran toward the truck waiving his arms to grab the driver’s attention. 

Having procured a ride toward South Hadley, the couple squeezed into the cab with the driver and his son.  The melted snow and plowed roads made it a quick, smooth ride back to South Hadley.  Thanking the driver for the ride, Ewan and Marcy hopped out of the cab in front of Marcy’s dorm.  Music was flowing from an open window; two students were leaning out smoking a cigarette.  The yellow squares were projected onto the snow, with shadow puppets moving across as students moved across the rooms inside the dorm.  Knowing he couldn’t stay much longer, Ewan helped carry the snowshoes back to Blanchard Gymnasium with Marcy before catching a bus back to Amherst.

As Marcy walked back to her dorm, she felt elated with the thought of being engaged to Ewan.  There was also a tinge of doubt, however; would she become just another Mount Holyoke student who spent four years working hard to then end up married and never using her degree?  Her art classes and work at the museum had inspired Marcy last summer; she had already begun to look for museum curator positions. Would she be able to work at the museum and have a family with Ewan?  She knew he would support her desire to work, but how long would that last?  Would his co-workers convince him otherwise?  His co-worker’s wives would no doubt shake their heads at her.

Claire arrived as Marcy was hanging up her wet clothing on the radiator.  “So how was the adventure?  Where did you go? Tell me the details, the day has been incredibly boring without you,” Claire asked, seating herself in the lounge chair.  “Well, we ended up going up to Mt. Holyoke and the Summit house to escape for some peace and quiet. Annndddd…Ewanaskedmetomarryhim, ” Marcy replied quickly.

“Excuse me? Come again, marry?”

“Yes, we are engaged!”

“Oh my goodness, Marcy that is incredible! Congratulations.  And you had no idea? Have you called your parents yet? When are you getting married? I am the maid of honor, obviously.”

“Hahahaha, slow down there, we just got engaged three hours ago.  I have not called my parents; I will probably wait to tell them until when I am home.  I am still trying to process this myself. And of course you are the maid of honor, that wasn’t even a question.”

“Hahahaha, this is delightful.  I cannot wait to start planning this with you.  Will you marry before graduation? Okay, too many questions. I am so excited for you though!”

“Great, you more than I.”

“Wait, why?”

“What if this means the end of working with art? I spent my entire summer at the museum learning all the restoring techniques, for what? So that I know them and will never get to use them because I’m stuck at home ironing my husband’s shirts, who I once loved dearly, but now resent.”

“Oh. Listen Marcy, Ewan has always been supportive of your non-traditional ways in the past.  Why wouldn’t he support you now? He loves you for who you are and not what he wants you to be.”

“What if that changes? I mean if I wanted to teach or be a nurse it would be perfectly fine, but an art restorer is not something women do.  I feel like I’m letting him lead by this and it just feels strange.”

“Marcy, I hate saying this, but it is true.  Being an unmarried woman in the working world today exposes you to a lot of criticism and condemnation.  We were lucky to study here, where being educated and pursuing your dreams is completely encouraged, but this is not the real world.   You are so lucky, your mother has encouraged you to study whatever you wanted, and work during the summer in a field you want to eventually work in.  Your fiancé is smart and loving and completely loves that you have your own separate goals that you actually work towards.  He always has and will rally behind you when you want to challenge the system.”

“Yeah… I guess.  I’m afraid of what people will say.  I feel everyone will be so supportive of the marriage and not my desire to be at the museum.”

“Well you won’t know until that happens.  You will always have support from here to be at the museum.  Someone has to break the mold Marcy, and this time it is you.”

In 1985, the refurbishment of the Summit House was completed with the aide of state funds and local volunteers.  The children of Marcy and Ewan Edwards took part in the rebuilding of the original structure by donating a bench for the Summit House, in honor of their parents engagement on the northwest corner of balcony. 

Clementines and Missing Children

Mary unloaded the paper bag of groceries, first the eggs, followed by the fruit (bananas, apples, clementines), the orange juice, frozen peas, and finally the milk carton.  Only noticing the child's face on the carton as she placed it on the counter.  After placing the groceries in their allocated places, Mary further investigated the side of the milk carton as she peeled a clementine.  Reading about the disappearance of Caroline Murphy from Florida, Massachusetts two months ago and the hotline number to be called if anyone has any information, Mary placed the half peeled clementine on the counter.

Seeing the missing child poster on the milk carton, reminded her of the summer between seventh and eighth grade.  Mary moved out of the kitchen, away from the smell of the clementine, to find the box of childhood belongings and knick-knacks.  Upon finding the box in the back of the hall closet, she nearly tore off the lid looking for the newspaper clipping with the missing child photo.  Throwing all the non-related objects to the side: the pie contest winner ribbons, report cards, post cards, potpourri from camp containing, lavender, clementine peel, dried apple, and rose petals.  At the very bottom, Mary found the folder containing the collection of newspaper articles related to that summer, from Roger Griffin's missing child poster to the articles written by his parents.

She returned to the kitchen, placing the folder next to the half-peeled clementine.  Opening the folder and lifting out the aged newspaper clippings one by one, Mary gazed at the photo of the adolescent man in the missing child article.  The memories of spending the summer by the lake, Roger teaching her hot to ride a unicycle and juggle using clementines, flooded back to her.  Roger had spent the first three weeks of the summer at circus camp, had come back with all sorts of tricks.  His disappearance rocked the small lake town in New Hampshire, posters of his smiling face were plastered everywhere.  Mary picked up three clementines from the fruit bowl and threw them each in the air individually.  Continuing for a few minutes, she let them drop to the counter, landing on Roger's missing child article.

Mary picked up her half-peeled clementine and finished peeling it as she continued to re-read all the articles related to Rogers initial missing child announcement. Moving through the articles from his parents looking for any information on their son's disappearance to the final police report of the finding of a body in the next county.  Mary went on eating her clementine piece by piece recalling the phone call from Roger's parents, the night the police found the body.  That was the night she began clipping together the missing child poster and articles.  Holding onto his missing child poster, with his smiling school photo, helped her remember all the times they juggled clementines and rode unicycles.

Mary finished her clementine, scooped the peel into her cupped hand and turned toward the trash can.  Throwing the peels away, she looked at the face on the milk carton.  Who were this girls friends? Are the police still looking for her? Did she know how to juggle clementines and ride unicycles?  

A three hour lay-over in the Amsterdam Schipol Airport

Blue suits race by

heal click clack.

Languages I know

languages I don't.

People coming and going.

Delayed flights

Twenty minutes

Three hours.

Currency exchange

Quick mathematics in my head,

how much IS a dollar worth?

Colorful patterns,

babies snuggled in layers of pattern

wait for a flight to Lagos.

The smooth relaxing Dutch voice,

"Would passenger Williams

 please report to gate E27. 

You are delaying the flight.

Your luggage will be off-loaded."

Orange clogs, windmills,

tulips, real and foam, 

Speculaas cookies and cheese

greet us at Duty Free.

The place I'm going

The places I've gone

The places I want to go

The places I've never heard of. 

Red and White Balloons

The canon explodes, leaving a trail of rotten eggs.  Stay between the white and red balloons, I tell myself.  Yelling and whistling as we make our way forward, jostling for spots.  Moving faster as we move away from the canon.  Men in camo line the streets.  Moving through the early morning mist.  The spires of the cathedral peak above the clouds.  Lush dew covered woodland.  Silence except the deep inhalations and exhalations.  The sun fighting through the clouds at the top.  Drums beating or is that my heart?  Ghosts lead the way.  I've lost sight of the red and white balloons.  Roaring voices greet us as we leave the forest, brownstones become our fencing.  The sun washes away the mist.  The river moves swiftly on my right, under the bridge, take me with you.  My stomach grumbles, time to refuel.  Along the rows of cherry trees.  More men in camo, one is yelling through a megaphone.  The shade of the trees provides relief from the beating sun.  Half way.  The quiet of the trees gives away to the mall.  Someone turned the volume from minimum to maximum.  Past the memorials and museums, down and around.  Out of the shade of the Smithsonian to the exposed cement.  Water? Where is the water?  Men and women in camo yell, WATER.  Paper cups litter the streets.  More water makes it onto my shirt than in my mouth.  I am so very tired.  "The end is near, have a beer," I wish.  OH! gummi bears!  I am pushed harder, a gel pack reflects the late morning sun.  This feels longer than a mile, I think they measured it wrong.  More men in camo.  Just keep moving.  Oh god, when will this end?  The graffiti sign, YES! So many people yelling, whistling, clapping.  I must beat the red and white balloons.

Adho Mukha Svanasana

Breathe in

Breathe out

I swan dive forward

Breathe in 

I gaze at something not quite there

Breathe out

My feet move back, I look ahead

Breathe in

I straighten and peer at the sky

Breathe out

I push back, inching toward the ground

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out

Seawall

You took me here on our first night.

Hand in hand

we walked the star-lit streets

of Bass Harbor.

The beam of the flashlight

bouncing ahead of us.

Past the lighthouse 

and the Harbor walk,

through towering pines

to the opening, vacant of trees.

Only the rocky beach to divide

sea from pond.

We stood listening to the waves.

The almost-full moon, 

a spot light upon us.

I saw my very first shooting star 

here.

Traveling off to new

wishes.

Matthea Harvey

Born: September 3, 1973

Years Active: 2000 - Present

Genre: Political Contemporary

Biography

Matthea Harvey was born in 1973.  There is little biographical information about her early life. She began writing as a child and realized her potential for poetry in college after taking a class with Henri Cole.  She doesn't restrict herself to just one art form but also played the flute for 13 years and enjoys photography and painting.  Her sister, a painter, has provided much influence for her poetry.  

Her poetry is described as "light and quick" by the New York Times.  She draws for inspiration from the world around her.  Using her eyes to absorb the goings on and then collecting them in an orange binder to combine various things to create poetry.  Inspired by photography of Gabriel Orozco, words of Eliot, Dickens, and Trollope and music of Willie Nellson, Harvey pushes the mold to create poems that are uniquely her own.  

Currently, Matthea works at Sarah Lawrence College in New York, edits jubilat, and continues to write poems and children's books.  Her first children's book is scheduled to come out in 2009.  She is also in the works with Amy Jean Porter for a collection of poems, Of Lamb, based on the life of Charles Lamb and his sister, Mary.

Works

Poetry

Pity the Bathtub Its Forced Embrace of the Human Form, 2000

Sad Little Breathing Machine, 2004

Modern Life, 2007

Short Story

No One Will See Themselves in You, 2005

The Little General & the Giant Snow Flake, 2009

Moods

Warm

"a row of trucks lit like orange squares in the setting sun"

Gradations of Blue

Lonesome

"the maid thinks otherwise she knows the king

Does does not grip the queen tightly in his arms"

Pity the Bathtub Its Forced Embrace of the Human Form

Intimate

"His breath quickens at night as he dreams of her he wants 

To create a present unlike any other..."

Pity the Bathtub Its Forced Embrace of the Human Form

Heavy

" ... the barge floating by loaded with

lard,  the white flagstones like platelets in the blood-red road."

Implications for Modern Life

Witty

"In the aftermath of calculus

your toast fell butter-side down."

Shiver & You have Weather

Groups/Movements: Contemporary.  Contemporary poets write of today and their surroundings.  As Matthea Harvey is still writing today it is difficult to place her among a group or movement.  Her writing is falls within many groups and movements including language poetry, New York School, and concrete poetry.  Language poetry aims to emphasis the language of the poem and allow the reader to connect with the poem in a new way. Language poetry seeks to involve the reader in the work, thus allowing the reader to aid in the meaning of the poem.  This style also requires the reader to approach the text in their own way.  Language poetry is also found weaved among prose.   The New York School of poetry was "serious, but also ironic and incorporated an urban sensibility into much of the work" (poets.org).  This movement included John Ashbury, Frank O'Hara, and Alice Notley.  The concrete poetry seeks to use visual aides to enhance the experience of the poem.  The concrete poets included e.e. cummings and Ezra Pound.  

I think Harvey takes many different aspects of each of these movements with her serious tones in The Future of Terror and Implications for Modern Life, which reflect the New York School by taking the changes in American life post 9/11.  Alternately, she also uses breaks and spaces to create visual stimulation in Introduction to Eden, following in the concrete poetry movement.  Many of Harvey's poems also fall into the language poetry movement by weaving her poetry into prose form in Baked Alaska, a Theory of.  Thus while she is still writing Harvey can not be contained to just one movement or group and takes from many different movements. 

Similar Artists

1) John Ashbery - Possibly an influence as well as a similar artist, Ashbery started his long career as a poet as an experimentalist, much like Harvey is known as now.  Both poets use disjointed syntax and the broken up stanzas.  Harvey follows in Ashbery's unconventional poem structure.  Harvey and Ashbery use out of the ordinary language to describe a subject.  

 

2) E. E. Cummings - Part of the concrete poets as one who wrote not only for literary appeal but also for visual appeal.  His broken style of Buffalo Bill's is visually similar to Harvey's Introduction to the World.  Both poets work with the visual and lack of punctuation at the end of lines to move the poem along.  The lines cascade onto the next without interruption.  Both poets share commonalities with Gertrude Stein as well. 

Followers While Matthea Harvey is still producing works at the moment it is difficult to assign a follower.  She teaches and therefore one can only imagine the number of students she has influenced and their potential for similarly great work.  

Influences

1) Anthony Trollope - One of the most successful and respected English novelists of the Victorian era.  Trollope wrote of political, social and gender issues of his day.  Harvey mentioned in an interview (see sources) the role of Trollope on her writing.  She describes his language as "delicious."  The influence can also be seen in her work of using language of today to relate current issues.

2)Amy Cutler - Harvey calls Cutler an influence as one who's paintings complement her (Harvey) poetry.  Harvey finds Cutlers art something that can be friends with her poems.  I find that the paintings of Cutler would be very much suited in a children's book, which happens to be a writing form Harvey uses often.   Cutler also uses current events and personal experiences to design her works of art.  Harvey has mentioned that she is influenced by things that come in through her senses (eyes, ears, nose, touch, taste), thus it is not surprising that she is influenced by art.

Works Consulted

www.poets.org

www.poetryfoundation.org

Sad Little Breathing Machine Matthea Harvey, 2004

Pity The Bathtub Its Forced Embrace of the Human Form Matthea Harvey, 2000

Matthea Harvey website: www.mattheaharvey.info

New York Times www.nytimes.com 

Article from Feb. 17, 2008

Bookslut Oct 2007

www.bookslut.com

Pablo Neruda

Born: July 12, 1904

Died: September 23, 1973

Years Active: 1923-1973

Genre: Latin American Poet

Biography

Born Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto in 1904 to Jose del Carmen Reyes and Rosa Basoalto in Parral, Chile.  Neruda was raised by his father after his mothers death from tuberculosis during his childhood.  His father, a railway worker, insisted Neruda be educated and moved the family to Temuco.  While studying Neruda met Gabriela Mistral, Nobel Prize winning poet of 1945, who introduced a twelve year old Neruda to poetry.  At the age of seventeen Neruda began his studies of French at the University of Chile in Santiago at the insistence of his father.  While at University, Neruda began writing poetry  and won the first prize in the Federacion de Estudiates poetry contest in 1921.  He then went on to publish his poetry in the Claridad.  In 1922, Neruda left University  and declared himself a poet and political activist.  It is here that he took the pen name Pablo Neruda, after the Czech poet, Jan Neruda.  

He self published his first book, Crepsculario, in 1923, followed by Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, which becomes his most wide read book.  Desperate for a job, Neruda took a position representing Chile as a diplomat in Burma.  This begins his long career as a Chilean diplomate which takes him to exotic locations including Ceylon, Jakarta, Java, and Singapore. It is in Java where he meets his first wife, Maryka Vogelzang.  Neruda serves as a diplomat in Buenos Aires and Barcelona before his life altering post in Madrid.

1934 marks the birth of his daughter, Malva, and the formation of his friendships with Rafael Alberti, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Cesar Vallejo.  This group of influential writers were politically active and wrote of the contemporary changes occurring in Spain in the years leading up to the Spanish Civil War.  His presence in Spain during the civil war marks a change in his poetry for the remainder of his life.  After witnessing the execution of his friend Garcia Lorca in 1936, Neruda moved to Paris, where he organized safe passage of Spanish refugees of the civil war to Chile.  

Neruda returned to his homeland in the early 1940's to write about his native land in The Heights of Machu Pichu and inspires his interest in the ancient Americas.  He married his second wife, Delia del Carril of Argentina in 1943.  In the late 1940's, the Chilean government moved to the right, forcing all the leftists writers and political figures to flee the country.  Neruda and his communist contemporaries went into hiding and then exile in 1948.  Inspired by his exile, Neruda wrote Spain in the Heart and Canto General before his return to Chile in 1952.   A fervent communist, Neruda landed on the the Congress of Cultural Freedom's (an anti-communist group, funded by the CIA) primary target list.  He spoke out against the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Vietnam war, and the role the US played.  

The final stage of his life was Neruda's most prolific.  In the final thirteen years of his life, Neruda produced 16 more works of poetry.  He won the 1971 Nobel Prize in Literature and is called the Picasso of poetry.  He served his final diplomatic post from 1970-72 in France. Ill with prostate cancer, Neruda returned to Chile with his nurse and lover, Matilde Urrutia to spend the remainder of his life.  He died of heart complications twelve days after the military coup overthrew Neruda's hopes of a marxist Chile.  

Works Produced

Drama

Romeo y Juliet (translation of Shakespeare), 1963

Fulgor y muerte de Joaquin Murieta, 1967

Long Fiction

El habitante y su esperanza, 1926

Nonfiction

Anillos, 1926

Viajes, 1955

Comiendo en Hungria, 1968

Confieso que he vivido: Memorias, 1974

Cartas de amor, 1974

Lo major de Anatole France, 1976

Para nacer he nacido, 1978

Cartas a Laura, 1978

Correspondencia durante "Residencia en la tierra", 1980

Poetry

Crepusculario, 1923

Veinte poemas de amor y una cancion desesperada, 1924

Tentativa del hombre infinito, 1926

El hondero entusiasta, 1933

Residencia en la tierra, 1933, 1935, 1947 (3 Vol.)

Espana en el corazon, 1937

Alturas de Machu Picho, 1948

Canto General, 1950

Los versos del capitan, 1952

Odas elementales, 1954

Las uvas y el viento, 1954

Nuevas odas elementales, 1956

Tercer libro de odas, 1957

Estravagario, 1958

Navegaciones y regresos, 1959

Cien sonetos de amor, 1959

Cancion de gesta, 1960

Las piedras de Chile, 1961

Cantos ceremoniales, 1962

Plenos poderes, 1962

Memorial de Isla Negra, 1964

Una casa en la arena, 1966

Arte de pajaros, 1966

La barcarola, 1967

Las manos del dia, 1968

Fin de mundo, 1969

Aun, 1969

Selected Poems, 1970

Las piedras del cielo, 1970

La espada encendida, 1970

New Poems, 1968-70, 1972

Geografia infructuosa, 1972

La rosa separada, 1973

Incitasion al Nixonicidio y alabanza de la revolucion chilena, 1973

El mar y las campanas, 1973

Pablo Neruda: Five Decades, a Selection of Poems (1925-70), 1974

Libro de las preguntas, 1974

Jardin de invierno, 1974

Elegia, 1974

El mal y el malo, 1974

El corazon amarillo, 1974

Defectos escogidos, 1974

2000, 1974

El rio invisible: Poesia y prosa de juventud, 1980

The Poetry of Pablo Neruda, 2003 

Moods

Nocturnal 

"I did not have the right to declare

that I existed: I was a child of the moon"

(Child of the Moon)

Aquatic

"Power of the sea, unknown

author of motion"

(The Bottom)

Revolutionary

"We must take to the streets

in resurrection of the portraits"

(Dead Portraits)

Sensual

"Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs

You look like a world, lying in surrender"

(Body of a Woman)

Ominous

"as forced to burn something over the black waters, and devoured

a vanished breath and an extreme liquor."

(Burial at the East)

Groups/Movements: Latin American Boom

The Latin American Boom began with writers in the 1960's and 70's and continued into the 1980's.  Their objective was to reach a wide circulation in Europe and then the world.  They challenged existing conventions of Latin American literature.  The literature is experimental and infused with political themes due to the changes occurring in Latin America at the time, including the Cuban revolution and then the Chilean coup in 1973.  The literature often has a non linear timeline and more than one narrative voice.  Themes include internationalism, awareness of national identity, world/hemispheric issues, economic and ideaologic issues.  Magical realism and historical fiction were the most popular movements within this group.  

Pablo Neruda belonged to many groups and movements in his five decades of work, I chose to focus on the Latin American Boom because I didn't know much about it and found it quite interesting.  He became part of the group later in his life after his exile from  Chile writing about his native country in Alturas de Machu Pichu and Canto General.  His political poetry existed throughout his life, but became more influential locally during the changes occurring in Post World War II Latin America.    

Similar Artists

1)Cesar Vallejo - A Peruvian poet, who befriended Neruda in the 1930's during their time in Spain.  Part of a larger literary circle in the pre-Franco era.  They both wrote of current issues important to them, mostly political.  After the Spanish Civil War, Vallejo reacted to the changes and wrote revolutionary poetry,  much like Nerudas reaction to the war.  Both poets also originated from Latin America and spent much of their lives in Europe expanding the publications of Latin American writers.

2) Julio Cortazar - Born in Belgium to Argentine parents, he was raised in Argentina.  He was part of the Latin American boom around the same time as Neruda.  While better known as a short story writer than a poet, his goals were to expand the knowledge of Latin American issues.  Much like Neruda, his writing reflects the changes occurring in Latin America in the 1950's and 60's.  Both Neruda and Cortazar also supported Salvadore Allende in his run for presidency of Chile.  Their leftist ideals of politics band Neruda and Cortazar in style.

Followers

Gabriel Garcia Marquez - Marquez is part of the later Latin American Boom and called Neruda "one of the greatest poets of the 20th century in any language." Following his forefathers in writing about Latin American culture and issues, Marquez draws from basic human concern, which can also be seen in Nerudas work.  Marquez while similar to Neruda had more magical realism than Neruda in his later work.  Marquez also went on to win the 1982 Nobel Prize for Literature.  

Influences

1) Gabriela Mistral - This 1945 Nobel prize winner was the first person to introduce young Neruda to poetry.  Without her he may have never found his true calling in life. She also supported his passion of poetry when his father disapproved of his writing and literature.

2) Federico Garcia Lorca - A few years older than Neruda, Lorca and Neruda met in Spain in the 1930's to form a tight knit literary circle who wrote about contemporary political issues.  Lorca was also part of the surrealism movement, which is noticed in Nerudas works from post Spanish Civil war until his exile from Chile.  Watching the execution of his friend, Lorca, drove Neruda's poems to be much more politically driven.  

Works Consulted

Literary Reference Center

Pablo Neruda, 1904-1923

Neruda, Pablo. Selected Poems: Bilingual Edition Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1970

Neruda, Pablo, The Hands of Day, Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend, 1968

Translated by William O'Daly, 2008