Eleanor Wilner
"Entering the Labyrinth," an essay on the persona poem.

Eleanor Wilner
Four persona poems: Minos, Ariadne, Daedalus, and The Minotaur.


This marks an author's first online publication Michelle Boisseau

This marks an author's first online publication Annie Boutelle
Christine Casson
This marks an author's first online publication Carolyn Creedon
Claudia Emerson
Daisy Fried
Diane Gilliam
Shadab Zeest Hashmi
Kathleen Jesme
Ilya Kaminsky
Marilyn Krysl
David Lee
Gary Copeland Lilley
Maurice Manning
Alicia Ostriker
Alicia Jo Rabins
Tim Seibles
This marks an author's first online publication Heidy Steidlmayer
Book Review
"Tourist in Hell" by Eleanor Wilner—Book Review, by David Rigsbee.

Annie Boutelle

This marks an author's first online publication Annie Boutelle is the founder of the Poetry Center at Smith College where she teaches in the English Department. Her first book of poems is Becoming Bone: Poems on the Life of Celia Thaxter (University of Arkansas, 2005). Her second, Nest of Thistles, won the 2005 Samuel French Morse Prize from Northeastern University Press. She currently holds the position of Grace Hazard Conkling Poet-in-Residence at Smith College.

MEDUSA by Caravaggio, Oil on Canvas over
     Convex Wooden Shield, Diameter 55cm, 1597–98

Too much pretty craves vinegar and
over-the-top ugly, ugly with panache.
Let the Cardinal pay for such bold
extremes, and let Rome open its sleep-
heavy eyes and see. Once again, Mario
screams in terror—a knack perfected
in Boy Bitten by a Lizard—eyes rolling
almost out of their sockets, mouth wide
and red, teeth bared, and the vipers
construct their own wet writhing mass
—sexual or deadly or both—huge tangle
that obliterates his own dark curls. His
nightmare yell pours out at us, and he
is not a he, but Medusa glimpsing
her mirrored self in Perseus's shield,
arterial blood jetting in streams from
her severed neck. And we don't know
where to look—no one has taught us
how to choose—the blood already
congealing, the frenzied snakes, that
mask of face pushing toward us, out
of the canvas, screaming itself awake.



© 2010 The Cortland Review