A Pilgrim's Journal of Life, Literature and Love
Editor-in-Chief Sarah Levesque was not planning on creating a new magazine, but when God puts something on your heart, you do it. And she’s super excited about it too! Sarah has been a reader since before she can remember, a writer since age 6, an editor since age 12, and a magazine-worker since age 20. […]
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These are the chainsaw days, humid and hot
Wind-blasted shingles and wind-blasted trees
And clearing windfall in the gasping heat:
Litter to the burn-piles, firewood to the stacks…
There is much more to Hugh Lofting than conversing with rabbits and squirrels – after all, everyone does that. In 1942 Lofting wrote his one adult work, Victory for the Slain.
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…But this year all your friends fit into cubes
On the computer screen at your kitchen table
And you hope your stupid brother won’t dance
Across the room in his Captain Marvel underwear…
Maybe I disappoint, but now I prefer
That safe distance Yevtushenko condemned
Because in media res all is chaos
The immediacy of emotion and pain…
Updates – I’m going to try to do one a week after each magazine comes out, and possibly random other times. 8.11.20 Wow okay it’s been a LONG time since I did this…. Oops. Stats: Winter 2020 (Feb) visual: 111* Winter 2020 (Feb) audio: 35 Youtube / 8 Anchor etc Spring 2020 (May) visual: 33* […]
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And now two cones are moving up the coast
Maybe tomorrow they’ll move back down again
While we stack toilet paper and MREs
Perhaps the ice cream truck’s an ice cream float…
Let us build a statue of Sergeant Schultz
Standing bravely at the door of Baracke 2
With a bouquet of flowers in one mighty hand
And a slice of apple strudel in the other…
Some say this is the age of the coronavirus. Perhaps it is, but more than that this is the age of incoherence. No one agrees on what the killer virus is, where it came from, masks or not masks, isolation or congregation, work or no work, treatments, dubious medicines (Macbeth IV:1), numbers of deaths, or the utility of borders (Richard II II:1)
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Sergeant Schneider barked at us, his young heroes
And made us crawl the beach at Oceanside
And tho’ he made each day’s harsh training1 sting
One evening at Mass we heard sweet children sing…
