Indiana Review is proud to announce the winner of our 2016 #IRPoetryPrize Twitter Contest! From heartbreak to comic relief, we received many inspired entries to our IR Lib prompt. After careful deliberation we chose one winner who will receive an IR prize pack and free entry to our 2016 Poetry Prize! Read more…
Sara Brickman’s great poem, “Poem for the Men Who Write Poems About Women’s Stories and Make Themselves Look Glorious In the Telling,” appears in our most recent issue, Indiana Review 37.2, Winter 2015.
Listen to Sara read her poem here.
Sara Brickman is an author, performer, and activist from Ann Arbor, MI. The winner of the 2015 Split This Rock Poetry Prize, Sara has received grants from 4Culture, a Ken Warfel Fellowship for Poetry in Community, and a Lambda Literary Emerging Writer Fellowship. Recent work appears in Muzzle, Shift, The New, and the anthology Courage: Daring Poems for Gutsy Girls. Her manuscript was a finalist for the 2015 Pamet River Prize from Yes Yes Books. Sara lives and writes in Charlottesville, VA, where she is a Hoyns Fellow and MFA candidate in Poetry at the University of Virginia.
The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
My office is configured in such a way that I’m blind to coworkers who appear at my door. Each day I sit like a parked car in a cul-de-sac, my backside positioned toward visitors, a situation that forces me to discriminate between the surprisingly varied sounds they make. Thus, I’ve come to recognize knockers by their knocks, foot-draggers by the scuff of their feet, and in one case, a person by a quick intake of breath, followed by a long pause, as with a case of apnea. Read more…
At night, the camp was illuminated. We slept during the day to avoid dreams of our parents killing us again, and in the hours before sunrise we laced our boots, packed jerky and marshmallows, and hiked the candle-lined trails that snaked behind our cabins. As junior counselor, I led the nocturnal hikes through the forest. Before my mother accidentally shot me, I had been camping only once, on an overnight Girl Scouts retreat. But after months at the Accidental camp, I could build fires, patch torn tents, and hike the intricate trails without a compass. Sometimes I led the campers in sing-alongs I remembered, and sometimes we were silent. Tonight, our only sounds were soft footsteps on the pine needle floor.
Just once, let the glossy body lie in its own
tangled grasses. Admit the doors uncoupled
from their latches to allow us through were ones
we shouldered open. This is not the way—
forcing fruit to sugar in our hands. When our mothers
told us to love, they meant that we should wear
warm socks to bed. Look at their beds. If the garden
is not a garden, and if its tiny lamps illuminate only
their own darknesses, we must hold ourselves inside
forever. This is what oceans are for. This is why 2am.
Because now that touch is less of a medicine—less touch.
This poem appeared in Indiana Review 35.1, Winter 2013.
Keetje Kuipers has been the Margery Davis Boyden Wilderness Writing Resident, a Stegner Fellow at Stanford, and the Emerging Writer Lecturer at Gettysburg College. A recipient of the Pushcart Prize, her poems, essays, and fiction have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Best American Poetry. Her first book of poetry, Beautiful in the Mouth, won the 2009 A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize and was published by BOA Editions. Her second collection, The Keys to the Jail, was published by BOA in 2014. Keetje is an Assistant Professor at Auburn University where she is Editor of Southern Humanities Review.