The Awp Official Guide to Writing Programs (9th ed)

Rating:
Summary: Best of its kind
Review: There is no better place to find a list of Ph.D. programs in Creative Writing.

I add this poem for poets:

Allow Me

This woman, Kathy, sitting Indian style on the dog-walking grass says with delight to the guy sitting next to me on the bench smoking the cigarette I just lit, "My daughter came running up to me the other day all excited while I was doing the laundry. She just had to tell me that you lose five minutes off of your life every time you smoke a cigarette." Her words bob, shaken up like a vile of baking soda and water, the cheap kind I drink when I get heartburn, not from listening to Chopin, but from bending over to tie my shoe an hour-or-two after eating a quick cheeseburger, where I have grease on my everyday windbreaker and know it's a stain. I reply, "I don't have kids to take care of me and don't want get stuck in some nursing home. I'd rather lose those years." The cold plunge into the deep, sloppy water, and up comes Kathy: "Some people never die from smoking." The guy sitting next to me on the seminar bench probably only has a cigarette when fast friends are offering one, like the day I was. He turns away from her, towards me, and he studies my face. I think to myself, smile at me or something. I think to myself, you owe me.

Rating:
Summary: Best of its kind
Review: There is no better place to find a list of Ph.D. programs in Creative Writing. The only program left out is the Union Institute and University which offers a Ph.D. in Interdisciplinary Studies with a concentration in Creative Writing.

I add this poem for poets:

Allow Me

This woman, Kathy, sitting Indian style on the dog-walking grass says with delight to the guy sitting next to me on the bench smoking the cigarette I just lit, "My daughter came running up to me the other day all excited while I was doing the laundry. She just had to tell me that you lose five minutes off of your life every time you smoke a cigarette." Her words bob, shaken up like a vile of baking soda and water, the cheap kind I drink when I get heartburn, not from listening to Chopin, but from bending over to tie my shoe an hour-or-two after eating a quick cheeseburger, where I have grease on my everyday windbreaker and know it's a stain. I reply, "I don't have kids to take care of me and don't want get stuck in some nursing home. I'd rather lose those years." The cold plunge into the deep, sloppy water, and up comes Kathy: "Some people never die from smoking." The guy sitting next to me on the seminar bench probably only has a cigarette when fast friends are offering one, like the day I was. He turns away from her, towards me, and he studies my face. I think to myself, smile at me or something. I think to myself, you owe me.