Present Present
December 28, 1964 The stranded gulch below Grand Central the gentle purr of cab tires in snow and hidden stars tears on the windshield torn inexorably away in whining motion and the dark thoughts which surround neon in Union Square I see you for a moment red green yellow searchlights cutting through falling flakes, head bent to the wind wet and frowning, melancholy, trying I know perfectly well where you walk to and that we’ll meet in even greater darkness later and will be warm so our cross of paths will not be just muddy footprints in the morning not like celestial bodies’ yearly passes, nothing pushes us away from each other even now I can lean forward across the square and see your surprised grey look become greener as I wipe the city’s moisture from your face and you shake the snow off onto my shoulder, light as a breath where the quarrels and vices of estranged companions weighed so bitterly and accidentally before, I saw you on the floor of my life walking slowly that time in summer rain stranger and nearer to become a way of feeling that is not painful casual or diffuse and seems to explore some peculiar insight of the heavens for its favorite bodies in the mixed-up air This article is part of The Nation’s 150th Anniversary Special Issue. Download a free PDF of the issue, with articles by James Baldwin, Barbara Ehrenreich, Toni Morrison, Howard Zinn and many more, here. This poem by Frank O’Hara (1926–1966) was published the same year his collection Lunch Poems brought him to fame.
Mar 23, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Frank O’Hara
The Populist Moment Has Finally Arrived The Populist Moment Has Finally Arrived
Occupy Wall Street put inequality at the center of our politics. Only an independent movement will keep it there.
Mar 23, 2015 / Feature / Robert L. Borosage
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love ‘Nation’ Readers How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love ‘Nation’ Readers
On a Nation cruise, the maritime adventure I usually refer to as “Lefties at Sea,” I used to take it for granted that some of the guests were troubled by my presence.
Mar 23, 2015 / Feature / Calvin Trillin
Testimonials to ‘The Nation’ Testimonials to ‘The Nation’
Encomiums from Elizabeth Warren, Rev. Jesse Jackson, Bernie Sanders and many more.
Mar 23, 2015 / Feature
Is Privacy Obsolete? Is Privacy Obsolete?
Thanks to the revolution in digital technology, privacy is about to go the way of the eight-track player.
Mar 23, 2015 / Feature / David Cole
1895–1905: When the American Empire Was Born 1895–1905: When the American Empire Was Born
Whenever a small force of Americans undertakes an expedition, the woods and hills become alive with enemies.
Mar 23, 2015 / Feature / The Nation
The Unconvincing Semi-Socialism of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ The Unconvincing Semi-Socialism of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’
Many small towns are “backward” in a likable way, but I have never seen one so Norman-Rockwellish.
Mar 23, 2015 / Feature / James Agee
Can Women and Men Live Together Again? Can Women and Men Live Together Again?
I hope we might meet as rebels together—not against one another, but against a social order that condemns so many of us to meaningless or degrading work in return for a glimp...
Mar 23, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Barbara Ehrenreich
Two Views of a Cadaver Room Two Views of a Cadaver Room
January 30, 1960 I The day she visited the dissecting room They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey, Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume Of the death vats clung to them; The white-smocked boys started working. The head of his cadaver had caved in, And she could scarcely make out anything In that rubble of skull plates and old leather. A sallow piece of string held it together. In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow. He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom. II In Brueghel’s panorama of smoke and slaughter Two people only are blind to the carrion army: He, afloat in the sea of her blue satin Skirts, sings in the direction Of her bare shoulder, while she bends, Fingering a leaflet of music, over him, Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands Of the death’s-head shadowing their song. These Flemish lovers flourish; not for long. Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country Foolish, delicate, in the lower right hand corner. This article is part of The Nation’s 150th Anniversary Special Issue. Download a free PDF of the issue, with articles by James Baldwin, Barbara Ehrenreich, Toni Morrison, Howard Zinn and many more, here. Sylvia Plath (1932–1963) published four poems in The Nation between 1955 and 1960.
Mar 23, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Sylvia Plath
Game Not Over Game Not Over
Despite the Gamergate backlash, a new generation of activists is working to end the racial, sexual and gender stereotypes promoted by the video-game industry.
Mar 23, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Helen Lewis