An investigative podcast hosted by world-renowned literary critic and publishing insider Bethanne Patrick. Book bans are on the rise across America. With the rise of social media, book publishers are losing their power as the industry gatekeepers. More and more celebrities and influencers are publishing books with ghostwriters. Writing communities are splintering because members are at cross purposes about their mission. Missing Pages is an investigative podcast about the book publishing ind ...
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"The Goose: A Diptych" by Devan Murphy
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Manage episode 500364030 series 1117673
Content provided by VOICEMAIL POEMS. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by VOICEMAIL POEMS or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://podcastplayer.com/legal.
I dreamed of a canoe, and of the two of us: I was new on the lake. Streaming through the murk, the cellar scent of blue and brown water, and you, my new love, saying nothing, only rowing us backwards deftly. At the lake’s deepest point: a miniature goose—a full grown adult, though not five inches high, resting on an island of ice, mid-June. Tenderly I scooped it. Its feet were frozen in a lump of ice, but it stood on my palm as quiet and unmoving as you, who waited with paused oars, seeming not to care much about the goose, but caring about my care. I rubbed my fingers over the ruly bird’s webs to warm them, and the ice melted all shiny and dewy as the goose stared into the distance, patiently or bluely, I could not tell. The goose free, we moved on. // Tuesday night I felt a stabbing at the bottom of my foot; ignoring it I woke in the morning to the same pain and could not run. You sat with me in the dining room and took my foot in your palm and tried to maneuver the splinter out, spaded with your tweezers the dip in the soft spot of the sole, right beneath the ball, asking, “Does this hurt?” I wanted to answer, “Yes, and I love you,” but I could not tell you I loved you while you held in your hands something so rude as my dirty and wounded foot. You could not remove the splinter, but with time it came loose on its own, or else the soft cheek of my sole grew hard enough to enclose the shard. ————————————– Devan Murphy called us from Pittsburgh, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems
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124 episodes
MP3•Episode home
Manage episode 500364030 series 1117673
Content provided by VOICEMAIL POEMS. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by VOICEMAIL POEMS or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://podcastplayer.com/legal.
I dreamed of a canoe, and of the two of us: I was new on the lake. Streaming through the murk, the cellar scent of blue and brown water, and you, my new love, saying nothing, only rowing us backwards deftly. At the lake’s deepest point: a miniature goose—a full grown adult, though not five inches high, resting on an island of ice, mid-June. Tenderly I scooped it. Its feet were frozen in a lump of ice, but it stood on my palm as quiet and unmoving as you, who waited with paused oars, seeming not to care much about the goose, but caring about my care. I rubbed my fingers over the ruly bird’s webs to warm them, and the ice melted all shiny and dewy as the goose stared into the distance, patiently or bluely, I could not tell. The goose free, we moved on. // Tuesday night I felt a stabbing at the bottom of my foot; ignoring it I woke in the morning to the same pain and could not run. You sat with me in the dining room and took my foot in your palm and tried to maneuver the splinter out, spaded with your tweezers the dip in the soft spot of the sole, right beneath the ball, asking, “Does this hurt?” I wanted to answer, “Yes, and I love you,” but I could not tell you I loved you while you held in your hands something so rude as my dirty and wounded foot. You could not remove the splinter, but with time it came loose on its own, or else the soft cheek of my sole grew hard enough to enclose the shard. ————————————– Devan Murphy called us from Pittsburgh, PA. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems
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124 episodes
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