The Poem by Diane Furtney
“The Poem” by Diane Furtney “ . . . this loose, drifting material of life . . . Some idea of a new form. Suppose one thing should open out of another—as in an unwritten novel”–Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary It’s instinctive, the lift at it, the damp summer grassweed smell, and you think small: gopher, badger, fox; an over owl; between the weeds. Then these shallow ditches, and the low foliage...
The Only Surviving Recording of Virginia Woolf’s Voice by Alison Townsend
“The Only Surviving Recording of Virginia Woolf’s Voice” by Alison Townsend I’m not expecting to hear her speak, stopped as I am at a red light in Stoughton, Wisconsin, on the daily, desperate dash home from work, my fractured spine throbbing as if it housed my heart not my nerves, this snippet on NPR as unexpected as recent November warm weather. But here she is, sounding husky and a bit tired, her plummy...
What Remains by Maggie Stetler
“What Remains” by Maggie Stetler — Remembering Virginia Woolf I. As a woman, I guarded my body too, longed for a mother, not a man, married for love and art but not sex. As a child in Pennsylvania, I dodged imaginary Cold-War bombs, pre-divorce barrages. In London, yours, a real war. No matter,...
Virginia Woolf’s Hollyhocks by Deborah Doolittle
“Virginia Woolf’s Hollyhocks” by Deborah Doolittle Country born, they are still the village gossips at the garden pump, watching the neighbor’s cat, the doorman’s dog, the grocer’s delivery boy. Some say there is always something new to look at. It is a commonplace they cannot help repeating: how the days come to them in exaggerated quantity and the hours slide past like slugs and snails. How they don their...
To the Lighthouse by Kim Hamilton
“To the Lighthouse” by Kim Hamilton I saw her lighthouse once, off St. Ives’ shore, a whitewash slip to sunrays sideways glint, a dozen canvases like sails raised on sand— Sunday painters working with the wind. But we ate pilchers from a rolled back tin, salty oils running through our hands like the turn of light, the flash that never will be caught, and never quite repeats. ____________________ Share...
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
The Q: Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, arms outstretched, close enough to touch?
The Q: What echoes through you that longs to take form—a poem, an image, a mark, a whisper of becoming?
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fathoms Feb 28, 2026 -
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