by Brigit Pegeen Kelly
The cicadas were loud and what looked like a child’s
Bracelet was coiled at the base of the Pilgrim.
It was a snake. Red and black. The cemetery
Is haunted. Perhaps by the Pilgrim. Perhaps
By another. . . .
by Thomas Travisano
She served on The Blue Pencil staff as book review editor and, in her senior year, as editor. Bishop’s multi-faceted, observant, and often funny Blue Pencil writings paint a portrait of a rounded person-of-letters that confounds the image of the elusive, disinterested observer Bishop later cultivated. In tones less guarded than those of her later work, Bishop here states her early views on nature, solitude, gender, the artistic vocation, and the fine art of observation.
by Jane Schapiro
She thinks if she had a sorrow,
one trauma capable
of absorbing all pain, she’d stop turning over
her past, trying to find a seed of despair.
She’d have one grief pulling, its pothole
deepening a little more each year.
by Mary Ann Waters
To be an ellipse, yet to be solid—
well, not quite solid, to be
an ellipsoid, then—no, to be
oval, an ovoid, to be an obovoid, . . .
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