Tilling the Literary Fields
A Brief History and Overview of Cornfield Review
Contributors: Amber Alexander, Andrew Coy, Alex Harris, Alexis Hayden, Sarah Holbrook, Casey Schetter, Haily Simeral
Although Marion is primarily known for being the former residence and final resting place of U.S. President Warren G. Harding, the city also has a rich literary heritage that spans decades, if not longer. Ohio State Marion has been an integral part of the city’s literary history, as Ohio State Marion has been promoting the creative efforts of the central Ohio region as far back as the 1970s. The Ohio State University at Marion produces an annual literary journal, Cornfield Review. The journal was named in honor of the cornfields that the campus was built on and has published the poetry, prose, and visual arts of many creatively-minded Ohio residents.
Every semester, the editorial board of Cornfield Review is composed of students from English 3662: Introduction to Literary Publishing. Under the guidance of Professor Ben McCorkle, the editorial board sorts through and critically evaluates dozens of submissions from writers, poets, artists, and photographers. While most submissions come from Ohio State Marion students and faculty, Cornfield Review is open to all who wish to submit their poetry, prose, artwork, and photography, regardless of their location or experience.
A collection of past volumes of Cornfield Review available for viewing in the exhibit).
History:
Initial planning for Cornfield Review began in 1974, with the first issue coming to press in 1976. Along with several special issues and anthologies over the years, the journal has been in near continuous production since it began. Founder David Citino and his students at the Ohio State University at Marion created the journal as a means to recognize the literary and artistic talent of local residents and Ohio State Marion.
The name Cornfield Review was Citino’s idea, as the campus was built on a cornfield and, at the time, the surrounding area was mostly farmland. Eventually, Citino would move to the Columbus campus, and passed away in 2005. {Note: a related article on David Citino appears elsewhere in 43302.} Consequently, there were others who took the role as faculty advisor for the publication, including Jacqueline Spangler and Stuart Lishan. More recently, Professor Ben McCorkle took custody of the publication in 2005 and continues to oversee the journal’s production today.
In addition to the print version, Cornfield Review has been archived online so viewers can see current and past publications over the years (https://cornfieldreview.osu.edu/). Additionally, the publication has been accompanied by a digital media supplement since 2006, titled Cornfield Review: Online, that typically publishes video, audio, and other nonprintable content (http://cornfieldreviewonline.com/).
Scenes of the Cornfield Review exhibit currently on display in the Kuhn Gallery, Ohio State Marion.
About the Gallery:
Currently, there is an exhibit on display for Cornfield Review in the Wayne and Geraldine Kuhn Fine Arts Gallery, located on the first floor of Morrill Hall on the Ohio State Marion campus. This exhibit showcases some of the current and past works of the publication. The gallery display includes past covers of The Cornfield Review and highlights works from authors, photographers, and artists over the years. Past issues of Cornfield Review are also laid out among some tables for people to come in and view at their leisure, as well as a short video display showcasing some of the digital media published in Cornfield Review: Online supplement.
Poetry Sampler:
To showcase the work submitted to and published by Cornfield Review, below are two poems written by Amber Alexander. Alexander is currently a senior at Ohio State Marion and will graduate in May 2022. She plans to pursue a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (Poetry) after graduation.
These poems, titled “self vivarium” and “soliloquy no. 6,” were published in the 2021 edition of Cornfield Review.
self vivarium
Butterflies aren't supposed to feel anything when they go through metamorphosis. It makes me wonder if anything about me has really changed. I am constantly at odds with my own turbulence.
I wrote about it while wallowing in my own tears, how my tortuous frame becomes consumed. I'll wake up, sweating, in the middle of the night and feel deranged; Butterflies aren't supposed to feel anything when they go through metamorphosis.
In my darkest hours I wish I could be Eurydice being visited by my Orpheus. Nobody has ever tried to rescue me. It shows, I am unchanged: I am constantly at odds with my own turbulence.
I can feel my mistakes harbor, spilling wine across my breasts in carelessness. I indulge in cynicism and from my own reality, I am estranged. Butterflies aren't supposed to feel anything when they go through metamorphosis.
During planetarium visits, I wonder what inspired the planets to be so candid with Copernicus. From time to time, Jupiter floats past. I was meant to be there, pulling destruction towards myself on purpose; my landing to Earth was an accident, something disarranged. This mistake may explain why I am constantly at odds with my own turbulence.
All I've ever wanted was to flutter timid wings, give my heart and brain time for an armistice. Everything that has ever tried to stop me from growing has become my own doubt, ingrained; Butterflies aren't supposed to feel anything when they go through metamorphosis yet I am constantly at odds with my own turbulence.
—Amber Alexander
soliloquy no. 6
Always isn’t for people like us. People who sit here or there with a paper cup full of coffee or full of tears. I don’t think the right word exists for us.
People who sit here or there with a paper cup trying to convince themselves not to dry swallow. I don’t think the right word exist for us, or those who depend on Zoloft and missionary sex.
Trying to convince themselves not to dry swallow all their pride resting at the bottom of the pill bottle. Those who depend on Zoloft and missionary sex drool into each other’s mouths at the art museum.
All their pride fades away when I walk into a room. There’s a cliché line about women and natural wonders — Cis men like to drool into my mouth about it at the art museum. It makes me remember why I have so many blocked numbers.
There’s a cliché line about women and natural wonders, or maybe it’s natural disasters; I have to face the fact that I’m a mess. It makes me remember why I have so many blocked numbers and validates why I never answer the phone when it rings.
Maybe it’s because of natural disasters that I have to face the fact that I’m a mess. People ask too much of me — it validates why I never answer the phone when it rings. The somber embrace of being alone in loneliness.
People ask too much of me when I can’t even find pieces left of myself to give. The somber embrace of being alone in loneliness makes me cry pitifully in the shower at midnight.
When I can’t even find pieces left of myself to give I still try to carve out something else. The ripping of my flesh makes me cry pitifully in the shower at midnight. Crimson is my own shade of giving.
I still try to carve out something else, ripping off my flesh and trying to present it as candidly as Van Gogh and his ear. Crimson is my own shade of giving, giving, giving. Taking, taking, taking myself away.
I have tried presenting it as candidly as Van Gogh but the poems I write when I want to die don’t seem to come off as nice. Instead taking, taking, taking myself away convincing myself I don’t need anyone.
The poems I write when I want to die don’t seem to come off as nice as Sylvia Plath’s on bound paper. I keep convincing myself I don’t need anyone as I sit on a park bench with you.
Like Sylvia Plath’s words bound on paper, “People or stars, / Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.” As I sit on a park bench with you, full of coffee and full of tears, I mutter,
Always isn’t for people like us.
—Amber Alexander
To read more poetry, prose, and everything in between from the 2021 Cornfield Review and past editions, please visit the following: https://cornfieldreview.osu.edu/.
Invitation to Submit:
Cornfield Review invites all 43302 readers to share their creativity, imagination, and style in this year’s 2022 edition. Poetry, prose, art, and photos--you name it, we take it. Go forth with your pens, pencils, laptops, cameras, etc., and submit your work to cornfieldreview.osu.edu by February 25. Queries can be directed to Ben McCorkle at mccorkle.12@osu.edu.
