by Judith Ann Moriarty When the muse nudges poet John Tyson, he puts his thoughts to paper waiting in a ’60s Smith-Corona electric typewriter. A gift from his sons, the vintage machine’s sound and deliberate feel turn him on, though now and then he constructs his poems by hand, on sheets of white paper.
Archive | February 2004
by Beth Fetterly One of the wonders of nature is the seemingly complete disappearance of insects once the temperature drops below freezing and the subsequent multitudes of insects swarming each summer. Where do insects go in the winter? Do they die? Hibernate? Migrate? Stay active? The answer is yes. Insects are the most diverse order […]
by Ashley Hardin It was a day in late May, the sun was shining, and a homeless cat lay bruised and bloody on the streets of Milwaukee. A group of children had decided that it would be a fun game to see who could run over him with a bike the most times. It is […]