AQP started in 2014 as a literary magazine with four online issues and one print edition annually. Since then, we’ve published hundreds of poems from writers in thirteen countries and all over the United States. We have awarded several young poets and artists with the Carolyn Hall Young Emerging Artists & Writers Award from AQP and have been fortunate to publish twelve collections including chapbooks, art books, and a graphic novel.

Currently we are publishing a series on the theme “How Did I Get Here?” (Here is a link for the debut essay by Mifuelayo Michael Ojeifo, Part I: https://www.alexandriaquarterlymag.com/special-feature-an-essay-by-mifuelayo and Part II: https://www.alexandriaquarterlymag.com/how-did-i-get-here-michael-part-two. )

We have three upcoming titles in the works, and this summer we are planning to host some writing workshops in Colorado and New Jersey. AQP is a labor of love and so occasionally we have to ask for a little help to get where we’re going. If you or anyone you know can contribute, we will not only be eternally grateful, but we’ll send you a goodie bag (or box probably) this summer.

Thank you for supporting our little press. The money raised will cover printing costs, fund awards, and help us pay our authors for their work.

TO DONATE OR TO SHARE THE LINK, VISIT: https://www.gofundme.com/f/aqp-2022-project-fund

OCTOBER 2021
AQP Welcomes our first intern, Teddy Colocotronis!

Please join me in welcoming Teddy to the AQP team. Teddy Colocotronis is graduate of the Davidson College English Honors program and a recipient of the F. Cooper Brantley Award for his short story entitled “Through a Telescope Shifting”. He currently resides in New York, probably close to a cup of coffee. What better introduction than by way of a poem:

Bad Penny
Teddy Colocotronis

Is God no more than a rumbling in my subconscious?
Thunder has a strange, rolling recurrence in its sound.
God is a bad penny,
Redemptive sneer and all.
God the ghost I curse in the wind
God the brass idol that curses me back.

I come from a race of people who used up all their God in war and peace.
They learned to pull water from the dust.
I, their descendant.
What is left for me besides to suffer from love?

What but to spit into dust, apply mud to my eyes.
To remove it and see the street
And the uncounted pennies
I’ve tried to keep warm in my hand.

Sometimes I wish the sky would open up and wash away all us sinners.
Sometimes I wish the Earth would open up and bathe us clean.
Sometimes I wish God would see me face-to-face and
Sometimes I flee from His sight.
But sometimes is never always, and so
I turn to a stream from nowhere which turns always in upon itself,
And promises to wash no one clean.