Late autumn, a day of mist and rain keeping me indoors. I think of Bashō at the outset of his final journey: taking up the walking stick, crossing the threshold. All day long I have sat by the window watching rain, reading The Narrow Road, strumming the guitar. Outside, dead leaves have piled up, vines have lost their bloom. In a nearby field, cranes pick through harvest remains without concern for the downpour…
Posts Published by Guest Contributor
For over sixty years, Portland Review has been supported by contributions from writers, editors, readers, and advocates of the literary arts. The journal is produced by the graduate students in the English Department at Portland State University, which is a nonprofit public institute.
Life Science by Rage Hezekiah
I plucked an owl pellet from the ground / cradling it, delicate, as if a palm-sized bird / and not the mass of bones and fur purged / from a second stomach. In science class / as a girl, I learned these dark forms teemed / with the remnants of undigested pieces…
Definitions of a Marriage by Judy T. Oldfield
Mon Chou – (Fr.) ca. 1997 1. A phrase of French origin that literally translates as “my cabbage.” 2. A French term of endearment. 3. A phrase I learned in French class freshman year of high school and began calling you, which you did not like (see definition 1)…
Weiss Haar by Tessa Livingstone
Hollow, like a tunnel-boned bird, / the cello is held securely by its neck / while one hand twists the tuning peg, / evoking a shrill, sharp sound. / From the farmhouse / an ill-fated rooster calls out…
Famous Last Words by Jim Davis
It’s now, she says. Now, & never again – so we beat on, boats against the current & swooned slowly, heard the snow falling faintly through the universe. I had been there before, lying on my back, thumbing my nose at You Know Who, which is why I don’t tell anyone anything. If I do, I start missing everybody. Poo-tee-weet said the bird under firebombs & the old man was dreaming about lions. Quién es? said Billy the Kid. Don’t let me drop. There, on the ground under the almond tree, pleasure of simple joys & the happy summer days, borne back ceaselessly into gray – there’s no good way to say goodbye.