Under the Icelandic Volcano Under the Icelandic Volcano
How a cold country lost its shirt in the global economic meltdown, but ultimately found its soul.
Feb 12, 2009 / Feature / Rebecca Solnit
The Nation Critic’s Picks: Gommorah and The Class The Nation Critic’s Picks: Gommorah and The Class
The Nation's film critic Stuart Klawans weighs in on two of the most acclaimed foreign films of 2008.
Feb 12, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Brett Story
Your Valentine, Made in Prison Your Valentine, Made in Prison
This Valentine's Day you might want to steer clear of Victoria's Secret, unless you like your lingerie made by prisoners.
Feb 12, 2009 / Feature / Beth Schwartzapfel
Three Poems Three Poems
These three poems from Blackbird and Wolf are published with permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Homosexuality First I saw the round bill, like a bud; then the sooty crested head, with avernal eyes flickering, distressed, then the peculiar long neck wrapping and unwrapping itself, like pity or love, when I removed the stovepipe cover of the bedroom chimney to free what was there and a duck crashed into the room (I am here in this fallen state), hitting her face, bending her throat back (my love, my inborn turbid wanting, at large all night), backing away, gnawing at her own wing linings (the poison of my life, the beast, the wolf), leaping out the window, which I held open (now clear, sane, serene), before climbing back naked into bed with you. Poppies Waking from comalike sleep, I saw the poppies, with their limp necks and unregimented beauty. Pause, I thought, say something true: It was night, I wanted to kiss your lips, which remained supple, but all the water in them had been replaced with embalming compound. So I was angry. I loved the poppies, with their wide-open faces, how they carried themselves, beckoning to me instead of pushing away. The way in and the way out are the same, essentially: emotions disrupting thought, proximity to God, the pain of separation. I loved the poppies, with their effortless existence, like grief and fate, but tempered and formalized. Your hair was black and curly; I combed it. Beach Walk I found a baby shark on the beach. Seagulls had eaten his eyes. His throat was bleeding. Lying on shell and sand, he looked smaller than he was. The ocean had scraped his insides clean. When I poked his stomach, darkness rose up in him, like black water. Later, I saw a boy, aroused and elated, beckoning from a dune. Like me, he was alone. Something tumbled between us-- not quite emotion. I could see the pink interior flesh of his eyes. "I got lost. Where am I?" he asked, like a debt owed to death. I was pressing my face to its spear-hafts. We fall, we fell, we are falling. Nothing mitigates it. The dark embryo bares its teeth and we move on.
Feb 12, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Henri Cole
Henri Cole: The Art of Violent Concision Henri Cole: The Art of Violent Concision
Henri Cole's Blackbird and Wolf contains some of the most truthful poems in modern American poetry. He is this year's winner of the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize.
Feb 12, 2009 / Books & the Arts / John Koethe
Great Expectations for Obama Great Expectations for Obama
Is the watered-down stimulus bill a signal of a more ambitious agenda for Obama or a harbinger of reduced expectations?
Feb 12, 2009
CEOs Attempt to ‘Rebrand’ Bonuses CEOs Attempt to ‘Rebrand’ Bonuses
They just don't get it. The Nation's Chris Hayes discusses the refusal of Wall Street CEOs to let their unearned bonuses go.
Feb 12, 2009 / Countdown
Save the News, Not the Newspaper Save the News, Not the Newspaper
The newspaper industry is falling off a cliff and with it may go much of our civil discourse.
Feb 12, 2009 / Column / Eric Alterman
Eight Is Enough Eight Is Enough
With the birth of Nadya Suleman's octuplets, we confront the virtues of motherhood, the ethics of fertility clinics and the myths we still concoct about childless women's worth.
Feb 12, 2009 / Column / Patricia J. Williams
Obama Backslides on ‘State Secrets’ Obama Backslides on ‘State Secrets’
The president has shown a troubling unwillingness to acknowledge the wrongs the Bush administration committed.
Feb 12, 2009 / David Cole