explore the possibility of joy in this winter’s weekly series

Photo by Kent Henderson

This Week:

I swallowed the key



a poem by
ALYSSA LaCOY | Student + Artist



a poem by
SHELLY SITZER | Performer + Writer


regarding joy

Photo by Olivia Basile

Perfect Joy


PLEASURE. HAPPINESS. JOY. The first beckons us constantly. The second evades us, then embraces us, then evades us again. The third exists only in theory until it strikes us, and then suddenly becomes more real than anything else we have known…



a short story by
ELIZABETH BRUCE | Educator + Writer

Full Circle

a prose poem by
YEYET SORIANO | Mother + Writer


a short story by
MAHARNAV BHUYAN | Journalist + Writer

Visual Arts


a prose poem and painting by
JENNIFER BABCOCK | Mother + Artist



a poem by
DAVID WALKER | Teacher + Poet

Pain? Not

a poem by
FABRICE POUSSIN | Professor + Poet


call for submissions, spring 2018

Photo by Nathan Anderson

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Tree of the Apple

a new anthology from Remembered Arts author, Kelly DuMar

“In this beautiful cycle of lamentations, Kelly DuMar follows her father through the wasteland of Alzheimer’s, tracking his failing mind with the faithfulness of a daughter and a poet… Keep this little book nearby, for its passion and its comfort, because nothing comforts like knowing you are accompanied in your sorrows.” –Aimée Sands

Tree of the Apple—I have never read a book of poems like it. From “The Color of Her Eyes,” the first poem, to “Goodnight,” the end, we are in a world of lilacs and lovers and family, deeply marrying earth to human nature, spanning life from courtship, to Alzheimer’s, to death. I am convinced these poems should be read as a devotional, a spiritual and domestic wonder. Just as the book’s title turns a familiar saying into something new, these poems take the ordinary and create something fresh and haunting…” –Myra Shapiro

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Life + Art

What is The Remembered Arts Journal?

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WE HAVE ALL FORGOTTEN WHAT WE REALLY ARE. All that we call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that for certain dead levels of our life we forget that we have forgotten. All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awful instant we remember that we forget. 

G.K. Chesterton