Poet’s Corner: Peter Balakian January 30, 2014

If you are from metro Detroit, Boston, Wooster, Fresno, or watch (unfortunately) the Kardashians, you are likely familiar with Armenians.

But we are a people more than just lots of religion and boreg and montun and lahmajun. We are more than our grandparents’ stories.

We are more than Kim Kardashian’s ass.

The author of one of The Glove’s favorite books, The Black Dog of Fate,
Peter Balakian reminds us why Armenian history matters:

The Oriental Rug by Peter Balakian

Poet’s Corner: Ben Goldberg

Week of Dec. 15, 2013


For those of you who enjoy poetry, this week’s Poet’s Corner will feature pieces from a Glove grown poet, Ben Goldberg.  Check him out at http://benrgold.com/

Poet’s Corner: Two Poems from Michigan Poet Ben Goldberg

Week of Dec. 15, 2013


Ben Goldberg was born and raised in Michigan.  His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Raleigh Review, MAYDAY Magazine, and The Southeast Review, in which he was a finalist in the 2012 Gearhart Poetry Contest.  He was also invited to the 2013 Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, which is the oldest writers’ conference in America, which invites many of the countries fresh, up and coming poets.

Below are two of his more Michigan themed pieces.  They can also be found, with audio, at Terrain: http://terrain.org/2012/poetry/two-poems-by-benjamin-goldberg/


Deer, anus-ways back.

Dear flesh, every dawn your hem
splayed along the shoulder,

crows lining up behind you
on the double-yellow no-passing line.

Dear deer, longitudinal cross-section
of the positions life leaves us in:

obsequious to the point
of vulgarity the tenderness attending

the end of you, peeling from you
the blanket of your traumas.

From any other direction, I will find you
as sunrise does: everything broken

visible, like a battered child
in fake sleep, one eye swollen,

half-open, caught between
watching and blinking.


This is where breath drags itself
from shallower breaths,
where the alluvial floodplain seeps

beneath its netting of dead
mosquitos, where I am called
under the footbridge’s rusted trusses

out of the winds of a late snow
plunging my eardrums.

Places worth escaping are made
to endure so much ice, little else.

A gosling is learning flight
at the school of her broken wing.
The mother hisses if I move

even slightly, or if my eyes
are any color but the ground’s.


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