Growing Up PK

Featuring reviews of:

  • Trespassers Will Be Baptized: The Unordained Memoir of a Preacher’s Daughter, by Elizabeth Hancock. Center Street Press, 2008, 288 pp., $9.99 (Kindle edition).
  • Easter Everywhere, by Darcy Steinke. Bloomsbury, 2008, 240 pp., $14.95 (paper).
  • Vows:  The Story of a Priest, a Nun, and Their Son, by Peter Manseau. Free Press, 2006, 416 pp., $15.
  • A River Runs Through It, by Norman MacLean. University of Chicago Press, 2001, 239 pp., $12 (paper).
  • The Preacher’s Boy, by Terry Pringle.  Algonquin, 1988, 280 pp.
  • Mama’s Boy, Preacher’s Son, by Kevin Jennings. Beacon, 2006.  267 pp., $9.99 (Kindle edition).

Kazimir Malevich: The Evangelist of Abstraction

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In order to achieve a higher awareness, Malevich believed that people had to abandon logic and that art was the gateway for doing so. He had felt an urgent need to release art from rationality: “I give warning of danger. Reason has imprisoned art in a box of square dimensions.”

A Conversation with Brian Turner

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Poetry Feature: Peter Jay Shippy

Featuring the poems:

  • Enchantment (featured as Poem of the Week, Sept. 6, 2011)
  • Kaputniks
  • The obliquity of the ecliptic
  • The girl in the Blue Öyster Cult onesie
  • The daring sleeper

Poetry Feature: Steve Gehrke

Featuring the poems:

Prologue, Epilogue [this poem was featured as a Poem of the Week September 20, 2011]

Beyond the Horizon

The Evaporating Braid

Poetry Feature: Diane Seuss

Featuring the poems:

White violet, not so much an image

I can’t listen to music, especially “Lush Life,”

The Silver Bullet

The full text of this story is not currently available online.

By the summer of 1984, bankruptcy was so close we could taste it. It tasted like beans, which we ate with growing frequency, and it tasted like fear. It tasted like the cigarettes my mother lit one off the next. My father, meanwhile, fell into deep silences. He stood with his arms crossed, contemplating our many orange Herefords, once valuable enough to warrant his near-constant attention, now worth less than three dimes a pound. The cows looked back, chewing their cuds, oblivious to soaring feed prices, unacquainted with terms like “mortgaged” and “remortgaged.” Neighbors came by to look at the equipment, offering such trifling amounts that my father’s face reddened. He turned them down, but they called again, offering less.

In the Mosque of Imam Alwani

This text is not currently available online.

This was when they lived in the eternal city. It seemed possible that the trio’s little corner of the Kurdish spring—the square chimneys of the brick kilns unfurling their listing columns of black smoke into the high, clear light, the sloped, red sides of the river, secreted within the ellipses of bank woods and seething with insects in the lambent dawn before the air filled with the clattering gossip of the washerwomen and the collisions of the silver-voiced children worrying its shallows—had, since the beginning of time, continued in just this way in its sounds and habits, relying on no allegiance other than the residents’ curious sense of belief in their own perpetuity. This was when Bajh and Asti and Araz all lived there together, when they were young and the fields and herds still seemed born entirely anew each spring; this was when it was still their city to have.

A Heavy Breath

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Her breakfast tasted like whale. It was a perished, fishy flavor that covered everything on her plate. Pauline swallowed her bacon and beans in several masses, leaving only drips of pork fat to be sopped up with yesterday’s bread. She and Ezra ate in silence while the baby slept. When Ezra’s plate was cleaned, he wiped his hands on the linen of the tablecloth, gulped down his coffee and rose to dress for work. He put on his bloodstained clothes.

Stay up with Me

Tom Barbash (2011)This text is not currently available online.

Henry is in the part of the dream where his father carries him piggyback through the shoulder-high waves. His father’s T-shirt is soaked through, and the salt water is making the cut on Henry’s elbow sting, when a woman’s voice calls out, “Henry . . . Henry.”