Category / Issue #53 December 2015

Editor’s Note

Readers: Welcome to Plume Issue # 53 –   December: Yes, and of course: Paris. Where when I first stepped foot there many years ago, felt…home. A sensation that has never left me: I was born in the wrong place.

Innocence | Charles Baxter

The birds she could identify—nuthatch, oriole—      were varied by their colors and their song, the way they each rested on a branch, both shy and bold, and she noticed also that faint distant acrid odor      that anyone of a certain

Once We Were | Martha Collins

once we were immigrants given to thought we were given the right to be taking what wasn’t our making what wasn’t who wasn’t us were __ take take take off your shoes your taken from shoes your take down shoes

Two Poems | Tom Crawford

LOVE HAS BIG TEETH   for Donald Hall   You, in New Hampshire, old now, alone, on your grandfather’s farm, gazing out the window at the sagging barn, bird watching. I’m in Maine right now, tasting still, the lobster roll

The Names |
David Kirby

My student Natasha, who is Greek but is now living in Turkey,                         tells me that in Greece, it’s acceptable to be very frank in social settings, so that if someone cooks dinner for you, it’s okay             to say, “You could

Letter From The Capital | D. N…

Je vous écris d’un pays lointain…   She writes: now we have wars between historical eras. We fight in time as well as space. 1914 vs. 1939 is a devastating clash. 2003 vs. 1096 is the test. Our task is

Posthumous Cabin | William Ols…

And got away to it, and left the work to others maybe twice a year for a couple few weeks, and sat inside, and drove from, and took walks and sat on boulders like life was all easy chairs. And

Two Poems | Dzvinia Orlowsky

The Fortieth Day   Now she called forth nights of a different kind of brilliance when the moon wrapped every thing with light—trumpeting yellow pumpkin blossoms, a water pump with a dropped handle resembling a rusty beard, an old chain

Two Poems | Georges Rodenbach

SUNDAYS Mournful Sunday afternoons in winter, in the drowsiness of provincial towns, where some inconsolable weather cock like a bird of iron, creaks alone on a roof-top! And drifting on the wind who knows what anguish. Rare passers-by travel the

What, Me? | Maureen Seaton

Sometimes I worry about being a success in a mediocre world.                                                                                                 –Lily Tomlin When we’re in a car together I worry we’ll die and the world will lose its role models. Forget flying somewhere for the same vacation, I

My Name in Sticks | Adam Tavel

 for my father   From the shallow sledding hill I gathered up the straightest twigs. I snapped the pile across my knee to spell it out atop a stoop that was, until the spring before, my throne to hold high

Burning Leaves | Chase Twichel…

Leaf-fires smell like saddle soap, manure, fresh hay. Leaf-burning’s illegal now, but I remember fathers letting kids tend the weak, feathery fires in the street. I rode my bike through the ash piles to school. On my fast horse I

Two Poems |
Roel Vertov

Transport   Today, a simple bowl of onion soup       under a canopy of plane trees in the square. I’m trying to write a poem       about a Luftlande infantry regiment parachuting over the airfields of Den Haag       in 1940, but there

Feature Selection | Christophe…

Our Featured Selection this month is Christopher Buckley’s poem “The Half-life of Revolution—Particle Physics, History, Baseball and Baby-Boomers”, which follows an introductory conversation between the poet and our Associate Editor for Special Features, Nancy Mitchell.   NM:    Chris, I can’t