We include fragments of poems that, while not contest finalists, provide one more way for America to shine a light on the ongoing horror in Ukraine.
The great Catholic irony is that the Mass—that ripe cadenced insane activity at the heart of the church—is weirdly, bizarrely, the right and fitting place to bring our concerns about the Mass itself.
Sure, we can talk about excellence. But we shouldn’t accept as fact the idea that we can rank the worth of a piece of art. That is a fiction itself, a fundamental untruth.
Can we ultimately trust the smirking ones in our midst, the sarcastic with a clever quip for our every move, for each vulnerable moment?