Category: Hart House Review
I had a pet caterpillar with no name.
Found him in the front yard. That deep into August, the front yard was nothing but a bunch of dry, burnt plants wherever the weeds didn’t grow. Then the weeds grew over the dead stuff. From the front yard to the side and back yards to the rest…
The Hart House Review Literary Contest, run by the Hart House Literary and Library Committee, was established in 1983. This year’s contest was organized by Christina Bondi and was judged by Daniel Scott Tysdal, Danila Motha, and Laura Lush. Here are our literary contest winners:
I have been getting used to
the cobwebs in my lungs;
I’ve learned how to look
like my Christmas cards. but still,
there are days the windows
remain broken, the empires
come crashing in and there are dishes to
be washed: bright red Ikea cups and cracked
mugs painted with children’s cartoons,
the green plastic plates that give slightly
against my hands, the lightly rusted…
chugging 8-dollar bitter red wine alone at 11am feeling like im back
at church gulping wine in the hopes of salvation maybe this time he
will enter me maybe if i break this bread i will swallow him whole
maybe if i break my self down i will b perfect enough for a man to
love me o…
I know the numinous in the cold morning clatter.
A spoon stirring in a tea cup.
A love immersed
in vertical light, arising from reverie
as hoar frost, window panes rattled into silence.
The last dish being washed by hand.
A love I will keep reaching into,
like the snow’s blanket over the Douglas Fir,
stillness melted into drips
I know the numinous in…
Shirley was acting strange all day. Distant. Detached. Unmoved by soft kisses on the shoulder.
“Did I do something wrong?” John asked.
No response. John replayed the day’s events in his mind, hoping to uncover a comment that might have set her off. Nothing stood out. In fact, he hadn’t said more than ten words to her…
……I remember when Martin Luther King Jr. got shot. I was sleeping in my beat-up sedan off the side of a dirt road leading into a derelict plantation that faced the Mississippi River. I detuned the radio to one of those channels of endless static and cranked the volume to the maximum because…
The Hart House Review is seeking new friends to join us for our 26th year in print. Successful applicants will have a sincere interest in contemporary Canadian literature. We look forward to hearing from you.
Please click on the tabs below to read about our vacant positions and learn how to apply.
If you have any questions, do not hesitate to…
Not long after the tsunami blocked out the sun and crashed onto the hot sand and swallowed whole the unsuspecting countries of the region, I found myself in the box of a pickup truck travelling a southerly direction. With the floodwaters receded, the wide-eyed dry goods grocer — his wife in the passenger seat beside…