Category: Literary

Merton as Mentor

With his Columbia University degrees in literature, including a master’s thesis on the poetry and imagery of the Romantic poet William Blake, his experience teaching at Columbia and at St. Bonaventure, and his many years teaching at Gethsemani—four years as master of scholastics and ten years as master of novices (frequently using literature in his classes)—Merton’s evaluation was also encouraging …

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George Preston Nelson, Poetry

Through the “Door to the River” I See  AAA no Brechtian “earthquakes to come,’’ only cool Coltranian chromatic riffs ascending/descending  Giant Steps tween heaven and house, notes runnin-t-getha in clefs of black juice...

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William Wolak/Poetry & Collage

  Unpredictable Pleasures You’re a shipwreck rusting into sand, but keep the wind’s sighing inside your tattered sails even when the world seems cold as a coffin’s white silk lining. Like the breathlessness of sparks, the...

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George Nelson Preston/How I Met Pablo Neruda

“Venceremos” was a cry that I constantly heard. Cuba was a beehive of armed citizens, milicianos and regulars. I knew of the invasion talk back home and I wondered how in the world a country armed in this fashion could be subdued. Little did I know that the debacle of the disastrously failed CIA sponsored beach-head at Bahia de Cochinos and La Cienega de Zapata would be a total route with Fidel himself commanding from the turret of a former Cuban Army battle tank.

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R. B. Ejue/Fiction

She starts greeting you in your language, releasing throngs of words you cannot understand so that you become irritated. All this is unnecessary. You know she can speak English and so you don’t understand why she insists on speaking your language all the time. You ignore her and walk away, hoping that your conduct puts her off, but she is unfazed, tipping the taxi driver and carrying your two traveling bags into the house, the smile on her face ever present.

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Tom Bradley/Fiction

Father Itchy-Nookie lurks simultaneously in all the crannies of this catacomb, his clutch purse brimming with transubstantial gore — Sam knows this without separating either seizured sets of eyelids. To the assembled expatriate congregation, Hiroshima’s chief attorney of nothingness dispenses wads of gristle and scab, flopping them greasily from the chipped rim of a crude ceramic chalice. And, unlike Sam’s present interlocutor, the wads are not even properly cooked.

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John L. Stanizzi/Poetry

WALMART The knuckled trailer park rests in topsy repose on a plinth of ledge beside paltry little Windham Airport whose main function is flying people up so they can skydive down, and where every now and then at dusk a Cessna’s...

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Alan Britt/Poetry

PLANTING A SEED   (For many people)     In the back room with Van Morrison. In the back room. In the back of the back room with Duckett & Beaz, back somewhere below purple azaleas, on our backs & on the back of a B&O...

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The name Ragazine was coined in the mid-’70s in Columbus, Ohio, as the title of an alternative newspaper/magazine put together by a group of friends. It was revived in 2004 as ragazine.cc, the on-line magazine of arts, information and entertainment, a collaboration of artists, writers, poets, photographers, travelers and interested others. And that’s what it still is.