Showing posts with label Reginald Shepherd. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reginald Shepherd. Show all posts

Saturday, August 01, 2009

CFS: Final day for Reginald Shepherd Prize

For all you procrastinators out there, today is the deadline for the Reginald Shepherd Memorial Poetry Prize. The final judge is Carl Phillips. Click here for guidelines, then step to it!

Monday, December 15, 2008

Mark your calendars

Thursday, March 12
7 pm
Reginald Shepherd Memorial Reading
New York University, Lillian Vernon Creative Writers House
58 West 10th St. (between 5th and 6th Avenues),
New York City

A beloved and admired poet, critic and teacher, Reginald Shepherd (1963-2008) inspired many with his passionate commitment to poetry, an art he viewed as inextricably connected to history, politics and everyday life. Raised in housing projects in the Bronx, he went on to publish five collections of poetry, two anthologies and a collection of essays, Orpheus in the Bronx: Essays on Identity, Politics, and the Freedom of Poetry. An impressive roster of poets will read, including Timothy Donnelly, Marilyn Hacker, Timothy Liu, Kevin Prufer, Evie Shockley, Susan Stewart and Yerra Sugarman.

Free and open to the public. Co-sponsored by Poets House and the New York University (NYU) Creative Writing Program.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

First cold

First cold of the season: I woke this morning with a sore throat; this evening I'm a phlegmy mess. Oh, well. Best to get it out of the way early.
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Very sorry to hear of Reginald Shepherd's death. It's hard to imagine such a light extinguished. I have vivid memories of his short stint on the faculty at Vermont College. . . I'll keep those to myself for now.
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It's a little freaky to see Ike bearing down on Houston. Hope everyone's okay in the old neighborhood.
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THE HIVE QUIET FOR NOW

Sons gone,
my parents quiet
in their mountain kitchen.
A last tomato quartered.
A long time ago my mother
ran up the mountain
trailed by yellowjackets
like the train of a dress.
A groundhog
squeezes into the garden.
In the valley a building
goes up in smoke.
They call the smoke a scarf.
They know better.

:: Peter Waldor, Door to a Noisy Room