NDQ has Reopened Submissions!

It is with a good bit of excitement that we announce that North Dakota Quarterly has reopened submission for fiction, poetry, and non-fiction for a volume to be published this fall. As part of this process, we’ve revised our submission guidelines to reflect the changing character of the board and, we

Dadaist Thursday

I don’t think Dadaist Thursday is a thing, but I wish that it was. Yesterday, I was talking to friend-of-the-Quarterly Paul Worley about an upcoming poetry prize offered by the NDQ (you heard it here first) and various other anti-capitalist and anti-modern kind of things, and he brought up that the

As Venus Stations Retrograde

As Venus Stations Retrograde Wendy Chin-Tanner silver moon sliver spoon kindness of slow summer dawn who blooms unfurling susurrus shredding night shedding darkness rising up she stares at mother’s face great dark sky her skin flecked with stars ~ Wendy Chin-Tanner is the author of the poetry collection Turn (Sibling

The Problem of the Teacher

As the second installment in our North Dakota Quarterly Reader, I offer this short essay from the inaugural issue of the Quarterly in 1910: “The Problem of the Teacher.” The talk was delivered by Luther C. Freedman of Morningside College in Iowa after Albert Ross Hill, President of the University

Filigree

Filigree Wendy Chin-Tanner Orion’s bright daughter Capella visible now Chiron’s in Pisces full circle of winter stars again circling it will not stop breath of wood leaf rot rock the rushing water cold wisps of day light cobwebs in her hair ~ Wendy Chin-Tanner is the author of the poetry

North Dakota Quarterly Reader: Volume 1

Last week, we introduced a gem from the North Dakota Quarterly archives, a reader compiled by Elizabeth Hampsten and Stephen Dilks in 1997. The NDQ Reader Volume 1 features a carefully curated selection of material from the first 86 years of the NDQ. Over the next few months, we’ll be

Letter from the Snowfields

Letter from the Snowfields Cody Deitz It came from out across the fields before the sun, the fog like whipping cream into water— a coyote calling out who in its rising melancholy yowl. My eyes pulled to the field from where it came— crop rows worked into lines bending ’round

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