Venus Retrograde: Something Old, Something New

We are hours away from the southern solstice, when the Sun aligns with the Tropic of Capricorn. That’s also known as the Northern Hemisphere winter solstice, or summer solstice for our readers in Australia, New Zealand and South Africa. For those of us in the northern side of the globe, we are pointed as far…

A Call to Share Stories about Pregnancy and Infant Loss

They are tiny, new, and completely innocent, and their loss brings vast oceans of grief. They are the stillborn, the miscarried, the missed – and they can leave parents with a deep, lonely longing that rarely gets voiced to a larger public. Now the code of silence is breaking. Reconceiving Loss, a Rhinebeck-based organization and…

A Poem: The Mathematician

It seems I was born to count winters. My years are scored by falling leaves. Decembers like decimals of icy splinters. To fields of corn the remainder cleaves. I’ve measured time by love’s equation. With sticks of chalk reduced to fingers. Mindful of each numbers station, But still the remainder lingers. Where is my beloved…

A Poem: A Thousand Ways

I shift my weight from one foot to the other In my body, I follow worry through the world    like a raindrop pursues gravity There are a thousand ways to purge the soul, but I’ve never learned their names I imagine lighting candles made of skulls and    releasing ten cries of feminine, feral power I…

A Poem: Two for the Road

1 Outside, everyone drinks wine in the garden, offering it to the latecomer, who refuses repeatedly. A naked woman emerges from an in-ground pool, wine glass in her hand, offering him a sip and asking if he can distinguish the grape variety. He has neither any idea nor any interest, and refuses to drink a…

A Poem: Red Car

in retrospect, she was too old to be fucking around in the car knew better than to kick the back of her mother’s seat swear at her younger brother while her father was driving. but the road was empty the sky was clear, and reason seemed to just float out the window to follow the…

A Poem: The Haunt

I took my brother to the mountain. I took him to the sea. I took him to the city. I’ll take him everywhere. I will take him from the deserts of Afghanistan    and show him green Ireland. I’ll show him the biggest, oldest trees and the temples and the fish markets and the spices in…

A Poem: Bus Ride Home from Tivoli

I want a blend of cardamom and sunshine, and let’s hope there’s no rain that day. I want a palace, not a place—add the A. I will store my shadow here; I will store my grace. I want the song with speckles of white, playing beneath the ivy as I walk past the lake. I…

NRBQ and The Nighthawks Holiday Jam and Hoedown

Terry Adams, visionary, driving force and “untamed genius of the keyboards” for NRBQ since the band’s inception over four decades ago, is one of music’s true originals. Roaring rockabilly, transcendent pop-rock, roadhouse blues, avant jazz – you name it, Adams claims it and reframes it. The new band is a revelation, capable of playing nearly…

Holiday Events This Season

Anne Pyburn Craig previews the plethora of holiday events this season, including Hudson Valley Hullabaloo; Frozendale; the Snowflake Festival; performances of “Amahl and the Night Visitors” and “A Christmas Carol,” and much more.

A Poem: Orientation

He used words like robust, timeline, roadmaps, and concrete, while the audience meditated and prayed, sifted his empty syllables of bragging and pretending, rooster prancing and posturing. Façade. Time settled like dust on lard. They shrank into themselves, dug deep like the men paid to burrow a well on the property and after weeks of…

A Poem: I Don’t Honk So

I mean I don’t think so. Because every time I open a big fat mouth of mine, it’s like an aberrant keyboard making thistles out of whistles and crow out of Velcro. There was a time when speaking could be as clear as a moving cloud over a frozen lake, the horizontal sun as quiet…

A Poem: Your Country

There are these great distances,    in between your ribs.    I want to kiss the furrows that dip    along your side, open up dark, raw spaces,    and plant my words there.    Sow them up into you    with the traces of my fingers.    I want those words to grow in your chest,    burst forth, bloom in wild,…

A Poem: Frogs and Squirrels

If a frog and a squirrel met while walking their dogs in the park in autumn with the light going through sideways trees and dinner crock-potting at home, I think he’d pick her up. The dogs share a bone in the kitchen, pretend this is everyday. The frog and squirrel move to the couch the…


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