Bravo! Riddle me this: I'm a white, old woman living in Oklahoma. I originate from Montana. My ballet instructor from many years ago in Oklahoma was Moscelyne Larkin, an Oklahoma Shawnee-Peoria and Russian who was married to a Polish ballet dancer named Roman Jasinski. And here we are, inextricably connected through art and humanness. No riddle but it was a hook, no?
This is just beautiful, one of my favourite poems. And if I ever need to find out what I think about something, I find writing 'in 14s' helps no end. So thank you both for a remarkable poem, and also a superb form.
A touching Dicksonian remembrance of the Great Wen diaspore. Gysies, on the other hand, in London and elsewhere (also referenced as unbaptised heathens), are bound up with the idea of freedom expressed, in part, in having no ties to a homeland. That seems to be going beyond the pale, if you know what I mean. Such renegade behavior could be a threat to taxation and the fair collection of farthings in phone booths.
I'm a writer, and I'm all-the way-nomadic. I came across this blog (couldn't BE more delighted) while searching for your flash fiction piece that centers on an egg the narrator is frying and, if memory serves, he has conversations with elders who are inside the yolk. Is that story in Blasphemy? I have purchased that collection 5 or 6 times. It is my most beloved collection of short stories in the whole wide world, and I keep giving it away. I am tasked with writing a flash fiction piece for an MA level creative writing course and I desperately want to read your egg story for inspiration, and also share it with the class. For me, your work is the gold standard. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Alexie, for improving the quality of my life. The reading part of it, the writing part of it, and the heaps, gobs, waves, and storms of wonder I have experienced within your work.
Oh! What is this "writing in 14s" all about? I'd love to try it. Maybe for this assignment.
Also, does anyone know which birds sing when half White/ half Mexican women die?
Some years ago, when my daughter finished high school and was preparing to fly across the country to college, and my husband and I decided to go our separate ways, and one of our two brother cats suddenly got sick and died, I read my first book of yours: War Dances. My daughter and I had decided to take a trip to Paris together, as a kind of last hurrah of our mother-daughter bond, a bond which we knew would not be broken, but would quickly morph into some completely unrecognizable ... thing. In the airport, while killing time waiting for our flight, I found War Dances, a book by an author I had never heard of, a book whose strange title triggered memories of my first visit, as a white rich tourist, to an Indian reservation, a visit in which I was hit for the first time with a realization of the enormity of one of the founding crimes of my country. But the book, I discovered, was not so much about being Indian, as it was about being human.
I love the way our grief is so universal that it can remind us of our tribe, whether we are quail, or Spokane in London, or just rich white women saying goodbye to our daughters. I love that the quail speak the grief of dead Indians. It's a kind of solidarity.
Bravo! Riddle me this: I'm a white, old woman living in Oklahoma. I originate from Montana. My ballet instructor from many years ago in Oklahoma was Moscelyne Larkin, an Oklahoma Shawnee-Peoria and Russian who was married to a Polish ballet dancer named Roman Jasinski. And here we are, inextricably connected through art and humanness. No riddle but it was a hook, no?
This is just beautiful, one of my favourite poems. And if I ever need to find out what I think about something, I find writing 'in 14s' helps no end. So thank you both for a remarkable poem, and also a superb form.
Thank you, Sherman. A remarkable poem of grief and love. And I marvel at your numbered sonnet format. I cannot forget:
12. “England,” in our tribal language, now means, “Aren’t we a miracle?” and “Goodbye.”
Thank you!
Thank you! And, hey, I got my contributor copies of Hummingbird. Thanks! That section always chokes me up.
Yo sherman, im in AP 12 right now, this poem is sick fr, good shit.
Lovely, Sherman. Strong lyrical ending, too.
Thank you, Mark.
So lovely and sad.
Thank you.
A touching Dicksonian remembrance of the Great Wen diaspore. Gysies, on the other hand, in London and elsewhere (also referenced as unbaptised heathens), are bound up with the idea of freedom expressed, in part, in having no ties to a homeland. That seems to be going beyond the pale, if you know what I mean. Such renegade behavior could be a threat to taxation and the fair collection of farthings in phone booths.
Historically, my tribe has been semi-nomadic. Historically, I’m also semi-nomadic.
I'm a writer, and I'm all-the way-nomadic. I came across this blog (couldn't BE more delighted) while searching for your flash fiction piece that centers on an egg the narrator is frying and, if memory serves, he has conversations with elders who are inside the yolk. Is that story in Blasphemy? I have purchased that collection 5 or 6 times. It is my most beloved collection of short stories in the whole wide world, and I keep giving it away. I am tasked with writing a flash fiction piece for an MA level creative writing course and I desperately want to read your egg story for inspiration, and also share it with the class. For me, your work is the gold standard. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Alexie, for improving the quality of my life. The reading part of it, the writing part of it, and the heaps, gobs, waves, and storms of wonder I have experienced within your work.
Oh! What is this "writing in 14s" all about? I'd love to try it. Maybe for this assignment.
Also, does anyone know which birds sing when half White/ half Mexican women die?
Some years ago, when my daughter finished high school and was preparing to fly across the country to college, and my husband and I decided to go our separate ways, and one of our two brother cats suddenly got sick and died, I read my first book of yours: War Dances. My daughter and I had decided to take a trip to Paris together, as a kind of last hurrah of our mother-daughter bond, a bond which we knew would not be broken, but would quickly morph into some completely unrecognizable ... thing. In the airport, while killing time waiting for our flight, I found War Dances, a book by an author I had never heard of, a book whose strange title triggered memories of my first visit, as a white rich tourist, to an Indian reservation, a visit in which I was hit for the first time with a realization of the enormity of one of the founding crimes of my country. But the book, I discovered, was not so much about being Indian, as it was about being human.
I love the way our grief is so universal that it can remind us of our tribe, whether we are quail, or Spokane in London, or just rich white women saying goodbye to our daughters. I love that the quail speak the grief of dead Indians. It's a kind of solidarity.
This is a beautiful, beautiful comment. Thank you for sharing your pain and love and story.
Love this one
Thank you!
Oh my. This is heart-achingly lovely. And aching. Thank you. Feels like a pile of quarters, and not sure if it's dwindling or growing. Both maybe.
Thank you so much. I miss my friend very much.
I am so sorry. Loss and missing--I cannot imagine these without writing. Thank you for your work and sharing.