editorial

I can hardly ever separate a poem from the circumstances that created it, or the place where it was composed.

Finally forty, too old at last for romantic suicide and the Yale younger Poets series, I discover to my chagrin that what I have for nearly a decade complacently mistaken for a species of interminable cookery discloses itself in the glare of mid-afternoon (so to speak) to be something less than ordinary more decrepitude.

One of my earliest memories is of a white horse in the northern woods.

Being asked to say something about my poetry, I find the impulse to be irresponsible almost completely overpowering.

In this issue we are happy to feature Leigh Faulkner's fine meditative poem, "Boundaries."

Dorothy Livesay's publication of Green Pitcher in 1928 launched a remarkable career in writing and literature.

People familiar with the sometimes lyric, sometimes irreverent poetry of Eric Ivan Berg have been saddened by the young poet's sudden death.

This "Profile" of John Metcalf is of course something of fiction, and you shouldn't expect anything other.

Alden Nowlan once made the important observation that it is probably more difficult to be a good critic than a good writer.

During 1965, I received several poems from Vancouver written by Pat