It is always a pleasure to read the poems of a writer who has an ear for language and an eye for form, a voice of their own, and an interest in a world beyond the reach of their own person.
It is the loss of memories and the meaning of memory that dominate, generating speculations that draw the reader into and through Maria Stepanova’s argument and interpretations.
The Movement works best as a stripped-down, high-speed introduction to the struggle for civil rights, nothing more.
For a generation of Russians, Joseph Brodsky was the poet, almost a code-word in the discourse of the intelligentsia, like Nabokov.
In these poems, contemplation, serenity, and service are the order of the day.
The overall effect is one of a genial, superficial club lecture on reading and writing poetry, punctuated by Frost’s Greatest Hits.
Carolyn Michel’s Rose is the sociable stranger on the bus who tempts you to miss your stop so you can hear her out to the end.
This review, like the opening night of She Loves Me, is dedicated to the life and work of the late producer Harold Prince.
In two short acts, playwright Win Wells depicts not so much a relationship as a fusion, a merging of identities into one single, complex personality.
Written more than a decade ago, Mahida’s Extra Key to Heaven falls all too painfully closely in line with current events.