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poetry

Les Murray and the Gorillas of Flame

Very recently, The Atlantic published “The Greatest Poet Alive: The Feral Genius of Australia’s Les Murray,” a gushing, appreciative overview of Murray’s career disguised as a review of his latest book Waiting for the Past. It is far from alone in its adoration of Murray’s distinguished career. Though he does have his detractors, and he was a major figure in Australia’s “poetry wars,” his name is regularly included on lists of potential Nobel Prize winners, and Joseph Brodsky’s claim that Murray is “quite simply, the one by whom the language lives” is oft-quoted.

An Interview with Michael Eden Reynolds

By Robert Norsworthy

Michael Eden Reynolds has won our 25th annual Ralph Gustafson Prize for Best Poem for "False Dichotomy or Monocot." Michael Eden Reynolds’ first book, Slant Room, was published by PQL in 2009. His second manuscript, Elsewhere Thought Known, has already been published in a parallel universe. Michael lives in Whitehorse where he works as a mental health/addictions counsellor.

An Interview with Rachel Rose

By Emily Skov-Nielson Rachel Rose's poems "Corona for Charlotte," "Good Measure," and "Sunflowers" appeared in The Fiddlehead Autumn 2015 issue. Rachel Rose is currently Vancouver’s Poet Laureate. She has published four collections of poetry: Giving My Body to Science, Notes on Arrival and Departure, Song and Spectacle, and most recently, Marry & Burn. She is also a short story writer and an essayist whose work has been published in literary magazines and anthologies across Canada and the United States. Her poem, “Sunflowers” (among others), is featured in The Fiddlehead Autumn 2015 issue. Photograph by Thomas Langdon

Welcoming Winter with John Thompson’s At the Edge of the Chopping there are no Secrets

By Emily Skov-Nielson There’s really no point in holding a grudge against winter since, let’s face it, it’s the prevailing season here in New Brunswick. So the next time the snow flies, resist the urge to curse and clench your jaw — sit back, pour yourself a glass of something dark and spirituous, and immerse yourself in Thompson’s magnetizing winter world: “this place suddenly yours.”

Silence

You ask me what kind of silence the moon makes

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