The New Reviewof Literature – October 2005

The New Review of Literature is filled with the usual suspects. You will find, of course, poetry, fiction, essays, reviews, and even a little extra: an interview. And, upon closer inspection, you’ll note that this collection is the product of the Graduate Writing program of Otis College of Art and Design. What is unexpected, though, what sets this compilation apart from others, is that all the pieces that appear among the pages are extraordinarily intelligent and well-informed.

The New Review of Literature is filled with the usual suspects. You will find, of course, poetry, fiction, essays, reviews, and even a little extra: an interview. And, upon closer inspection, you’ll note that this collection is the product of the Graduate Writing program of Otis College of Art and Design. What is unexpected, though, what sets this compilation apart from others, is that all the pieces that appear among the pages are extraordinarily intelligent and well-informed. Even the creatively fictive seek to be informed. Elizabeth Robinson’s verse, “New Vocation,” for example, refuses to go quietly: “The body collects aphorisms, as though it were a jar. / That is the world: secured so, and palely organized / according to mysterious function. / I step forward from the system to confess / that I no longer want to whiten / the mystery. I had once carried / a knife to cut away armloads of list, / wind blowing. But no more this obscurity.” Bill Mohr’s essay, “from Rear Projections,” speaks to the artful deception that is directed toward our perceptions. The piece I liked best, however, is of well-informed regret. In his poem “Dear Roger Clemens,” Ryan Murphy, perhaps a New Yorker, laments the Rocket-man who left. To wit: “Dominance is its own form of frailty. // The burnt grass and rusted cars / extend forever. / There is more that binds us / than divides us. / I’m glad you’re gone.” I am, as you might imagine, a fan of both this magazine and this poem. The former is likely obvious to you, the latter may not be. I will, here and now, confess: I’m a Bostonian. [http://gw.otis.edu/newreview.html] —Terri Denton