Craft Lecture
Mary Jo Salter
Those of us who got to spend time with the poet Mark Strand, summer after summer, at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, will recognize the tongue-in-cheek tone of the following remark...
Interview
The Sewanee Review
Jill McCorkle arrived on the literary scene in 1984, when Algonquin simultaneously published her novels The Cheer Leader and July 7th. She was twenty-six-years-old. Since then, McCo...
Poetry
Christian Wiman
Good morning misery, goodbye belief, good Lord the light cutting across the lake so long gone to ice— There is an under, always, through which things still move, breathe, and have t...
Poetry
A. E. Stallings
A plague of feral peafowl in the garden (I know—who knew?) now decimates the grapes, Makes salad of the young geraniums, Kerfuffling dust-baths in denuded planters. They leave ubiqu...
Poetry
A. E. Stallings
It starts with a hunch: watching her scratch unthinking- ly behind her ear. You loosen a hitch along a hair’s burnished shaft— it’s just as you fear: now you’re picking nits with a ...
Poetry
A. E. Stallings
The ladybird (or -bug) exits stage right, Or, no, stage left, tiptoeing the tabletop, But somewhat towards us, towards the source of light, While overhead towers the scalloped cup O...
Poetry
Michael Shewmaker
presses his ear against the thinnest wall of his apartment. In the empty space between, he hears a static like the sea’s. Past that—above the television’s talk she always falls asle...
Poetry
Jennifer Habel
a cento From the Paris Review interviews with E. Hardwick / T. Morrison / J. Malcolm / J. Didion / J. Williams / A. Beattie / D. Eisenberg
Poetry
Michael Shewmaker
Stairs Beneath the banister, along the wall, two racks of shoes and a tall black grandfather clock. Its face reads eight o’clock. It chimes. A wooden woman walks a small mechanical ...
Poetry
Michael Shewmaker
His mother must have looked away, the reckless boy who teeters on the railing of the balcony. Beneath him, the congregation sings a final hymn in a minor key. Above, the oculus, gol...
Poetry
Edgar Kunz
If we met up in the iced-over lot at the neighborhood’s edge we were kids in—grid of low-slung ranches sunk under the lengthening shadows of larch and pine, each street slanted towa...
Poetry
Edgar Kunz
Alone now in Oakland. Thin cloud rusting over Temescal, garlic simmering in the pan, lavender potted and long dead in the breezeway. I start the water, carry the milk crates in from...
Poetry
Jennifer Habel
In a dark drawer he shreds the bristles of a basting brush, gleaning oil from the boar’s hair, then rears, snout stained by the bouillon cube he despoiled. His whiskers twitch, he l...
Poetry
Jennifer Habel
A single bite from the center of each of six lamb chops was Einstein’s dinner. He did not like fat. Or waste. He gave the remainders to his sister, his daughter, his lover . . . His...
Poetry
Katy Didden
after watching an all-male production of Richard III Pretend you’re Anne. Pretend you are a man who plays an Anne who spits into the face of Gloucester. Can a man expand what we kno...
Poetry
Tiana Clark
Past the portrait of Robert E. Lee I walked into the snow bright circle of center stage. Half my face caught in the blazing light and the other lost in my shadow growing against the...
Nonfiction
John Jeremiah Sullivan
Part I: The Ahjah Is Coming   In discussing twentieth century American popular music and its most essential genre, the blues, there have been two main channels for getting into...
Nonfiction
Adam Ross
This editorial, like many elements of the Sewanee Review, has a long history. The poet and critic Allen Tate created the State of Letters in Autumn 1944 to announce his editorship w...
Nonfiction
Stephanie Danler
Like the tectonic plates that keep California unsteady, trauma’s movement is never interrupted; it is always shifting—yet we only pay attention when it’s a disaster. The Love Intere...
Nonfiction
Lauren Groff
I flew to Rio de Janeiro on a red-eye, having shared my brain all night with the writer Joachim Maria Machado de Assis, whose novel Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas (better known in...
Nonfiction
Adam Kirsch
Literary awards, when you really think about them, are paradoxical things. It is customary for the recipient of an award to say that he or she is grateful for it. At the same time, ...
Nonfiction Online Feature
Jon Meacham
This past summer, I invited historian Jon Meacham to write a piece about the approaching presidential election. After bandying several ideas, he delivered an essay on the kind of pr...
Nonfiction Online Feature
Jon Meacham
This past summer, I invited historian Jon Meacham to write a piece about the approaching presidential election. After bandying several ideas, he delivered an essay on the kind of pr...
Fiction
John R. Sesgo
Campoamor and Santiago de la Ribera lie an hour’s bicycle ride from each other. On Antonio’s mental map each town is enclosed by a red circle, and a line of the same color weaves in...
Fiction
Jamie Quatro
In third grade, my dark-haired friend Anika had a genius older brother whose parents let him turn his bedroom into a chemistry lab, his treehouse into the place he slept at night. W...
Fiction
Michael Knight
Marcus Weems was the sixth-richest man in the state of Alabama, but he lost his wife to cancer like everybody else. Of course he brought the full leverage of his affluence to bear o...
Fiction
Sidik Fofana
My nigga Boons came home on the fourth. I ain’t seent the nigga in four years, so when I heard he was out I’m like, Imma scoop the nigga up first thing this evenin and welcome him b...
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