Alphabetical Poem Index


  • “oh antic God”, by Lucille Clifton (9/30/2015) - oh antic God return to me my mother in her thirties leaned across the front porch the huge pillow of her breasts pressing against the rail summoning me in for bed. I am almost the dead woman’s age times two. I can barely recall her song the scent of her hands though her wild hair […]
  • #4, by Jane Miller (3/8/2014) - Do you know how long it has been since a moral choice presented itself and the wrong choice was made not two minutes why is it not quiet between lightning and thunder as if someone were asking do you have other articulable feelings if so express them now tragedy ensues with a laser blast from […]
  • (Soma)tic 21: Touch Yourself for Art, by CAConrad (4/16/2015) - —For Penny Arcade There must be a piece of art near where you live that you enjoy, even LOVE! A piece of art that IF THERE WAS WAR you would steal it and hide it in your little apartment. I’m going to PACK my apartment TO THE ROOF when war comes! This exercise needs 7 […]
  • 1939, by Marjorie Agosín (6/7/2015) - I She knew how to seduce her destiny, predict the time of flight In 1939, dressed in garments of night and happiness at the threshold of a fearful Hamburg Harbor resolved to live, she sailed to Southern seas. In 1938, the windows of her house of water and stone resisted the extreme horror of that […]
  • 1941 Piece, by Emilio Villa (3/8/2015) - It could be that on any given day air would travel half-heartedly through the air, maybe, but if Lake Garda fails to recover in time all the dust eaten by cyclists in meaningless races, and kilometers that don’t count, good for nothing, maybe, as long as the ozone and the horizontal rain speak to traffic […]
  • 3 Men: Portraits Without the Human Figure, by Deena Linnett (7/4/2015) - Hotel-casino: lights flash, crowds tread patterned carpets hoping for a turn in fortune. Despite the ardent wishes of the women you have left you are not dead. You’re good at lively passing things that happen here: at restaurants, in bed, at tables tossing dice and cards. That smudge at bottom right stands in for me, […]
  • 45 I Give Up My Identity, by Jerome Rothenberg (8/4/2012) - My name is smaller than it sounds. I work & polish it until a light shines through. I thrust a thorn under my tongue. I drop the little stones behind me. Striding I can feel my height extend up to the rafters. My voice is thin, still thinner is the space between my footsteps & […]
  • 5 & 7 & 5, by Anselm Hollo (4/18/2015) - follow that airplane of course I’m high this is an emergency § giant Scots terrier I thought I saw was known as Taxicab Mountain § brown photo legend “serene enjoyment” they suck pipes bones crumbled back § night train whistles stars over a nation under mad temporal czars § round lumps of cells grow up […]
  • 5 South 43rd Street, Floor 2, by Yolanda Wisher (4/24/2015) - Sometimes we would get hungry for the neighborhood. Walk up the sidewalk towards Chestnut Street. Speak to the Rev holding the light-skinned baby, ask his son to come put a new inner tube on my bike. Cross Ludlow, past the mailbox on the corner, Risqué Video, Dino’s Pizza, and the Emerald Laundromat. The fruit trucks […]
  • 9. , by E. E. Cummings (3/29/2012) - there are so many tictoc clocks everywhere telling people what toctic time it is for tictic instance five toc minutes toc past six tic Spring is not regulated and does not get out of order nor do its hands a little jerking move over numbers slowly we do not wind it up it has no […]
  • A Bedtime Story For Mr. Lamb, by Arthur Nevis (8/4/2015) - What story would you like to hear, Mr. Lamb? Are you a real lamb? Would you like to hear of Webbers? Or Whales? Here is the Story of Alice:   The Queen wants to have a baby, That’s why she’s kissing her hand. The Mad Habit is pouring specklish tea.   Finally, the Mad Habit and the […]
  • A Boat, Beneath a Sunny Sky, by Lewis Carroll (3/24/2014) - A boat, beneath a sunny sky Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July— Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear, Pleased a simple tale to hear— Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die: Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies […]
  • A Bronze God, Or A Letter On Demand, by Clifton Gachagua (10/20/2015) - I like to think of your silence as the love letters you will not write me, as two sax solos from two ages across a stage, learning the languages of kissing with your eyes closed. I like to think of you as a god to whom I no longer pray, as a god I aspire […]
  • A Calculus of Readiness, by Liz Waldner (2/25/2015) - I, too, come from the city of dolls. A small palm is my umbrella. This takes care of above but below, the blind river of sadness rolls on and in it, a hand is always reaching up to pick fish from the night-time sky. The lines on the palm of the hand lure a trout […]
  • A Certain Slant of Sunlight, by Ted Berrigan (11/11/2015) - In Africa the wine is cheap, and it is on St. Mark's Place too, beneath a white moon. I'll go there tomorrow, dark bulk hooded against what is hurled down at me in my no hat which is weather: the tall pretty girl in the print dress under the fur collar of her cloth coat […]
  • A Change Of Wind, by Katia Kapovich (12/8/2015) - On the eighth day he coined the word “alone” and saw that it was as good as everything else. A yellow school bus rattled down the lane, a wind blew in a drainpipe, strong, mellifluous. I brought two empty crates to the parking lot, watched neighbors with briefcases and car keys. At noon a mailman […]
  • A child said, What is the grass?, by Walt Whitman (3/30/2012) - A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the […]
  • A Clear Midnight, by Walt Whitman (6/16/2012) - This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars.
  • A Crosstown Breeze, by Henry Taylor (2/3/2012) - A drift of wind when August wheeled brought back to mind an alfalfa field where green windrows bleached down to hay while storm clouds rose and rolled our way. With lighthearted strain in our pastoral agon we raced the rain with baler and wagon, driving each other to hold the turn out of the weather […]
  • A Few Lines from Rehoboth Beach, by Fleda Brown (3/24/2015) - Dear friend, you were right: the smell of fish and foam and algae makes one green smell together. It clears my head. It empties me enough to fit down in my own skin for a while, singleminded as a surfer. The first day here, there was nobody, from one distance to the other. Rain rose […]
  • A Fox’s Tail is Called a Brush, by Emily Pettit (7/23/2015) - There is the room I will pretend does not exist, for now. For now that room does not exist. Really remember colors reflected in pools of water. The marshaling of evidence. Cats of what colors. A spectrum. Color to describe the cat that is down. That cat that is to the side. With one eye. […]
  • A Franc Sonic, by Laura Moriarty (10/13/2015) - for Jerry Estrin Snow covers The hills one by one Our neighborhood Characters become San Francisco 1874 Words later language A photograph At home when Light writes 1974 Or 1979 We move where The Lives of My Books Pages accumulate Not legible as themselves Historical time 1989 Startled leaves us Unafraid though Overgrown Died in […]
  • A Ghost Abandons The Haunted, by Katie Cappello (11/15/2015) - You ignore the way light filters through my cells, the way I have of fading out—still there is a constant tug, a stretching, what is left of me is coming loose. Soon, I will be only crumbs of popcorn, a blue ring in the tub, an empty toilet paper roll, black mold misted on old […]
  • A Gift for You, by Eileen Myles (12/19/2015) - around 530 is a beautiful peaceful time you can just hear the dog lapping David lifts his smoke to his lips forever dangling chain in the middle of everything bout the top shelf or so. The party at which I sd that’s my col- lected works and every one stared my home was so small […]
  • A Green Crab’s Shell, by Mark Doty (3/25/2014) - Not, exactly, green: closer to bronze preserved in kind brine, something retrieved from a Greco-Roman wreck, patinated and oddly muscular. We cannot know what his fantastic legs were like– though evidence suggests eight complexly folded scuttling works of armament, crowned by the foreclaws’ gesture of menace and power. A gull’s gobbled the center, leaving this […]
  • A Happy Birthday, by Ted Kooser (12/14/2015) - This evening, I sat by an open window and read till the light was gone and the book was no more than a part of the darkness. I could easily have switched on a lamp, but I wanted to ride this day down into night, to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page with the […]
  • A Light Says Why, by Karen Volkman (7/25/2015) - A light says why. From all the poor prying. Again we attain a more regal posture–small bird accompanying slips between our whim. Where will we flicker, loose as two feathers from a wren’s back? Gone, do not brood for all the hands that miss you. They hardly hold. Don’t wait, one who thought a dark […]
  • A Line-storm Song, by Robert Frost (4/13/2012) - The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain. The birds […]
  • A Litany in Time of Plague, by Thomas Nashe (7/21/2012) - Adieu, farewell, earth’s bliss; This world uncertain is; Fond are life’s lustful joys; Death proves them all but toys; None from his darts can fly; I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us! Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health; Physic himself must fade. All things to end […]
  • A Memory of June, by Claude McKay (11/16/2015) - When June comes dancing o’er the death of May, With scarlet roses tinting her green breast, And mating thrushes ushering in her day, And Earth on tiptoe for her golden guest, I always see the evening when we met— The first of June baptized in tender rain— And walked home through the wide streets, gleaming […]
  • A Minor Poet, by Stephen Vincent Benét (12/10/2015) - I am a shell. From me you shall not hear The splendid tramplings of insistent drums, The orbed gold of the viol’s voice that comes, Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear. Yet, if you hold me close against the ear, A dim, far whisper rises clamorously, The thunderous beat and passion of the sea, The […]
  • A Muse, by Reginald Shepherd (6/26/2012) - He winds through the party like wind, one of the just who live alone in black and white, bewildered by the eden of his body. (You, you talk like winter rain.) He’s the meaning of almost-morning walking home at five A.M., the difference a night makes turning over into day, simple birds staking claims on […]
  • A Natural History of My White Girl, by Ching-In Chen (6/9/2015) - after Mendi Obadike When I was a white girl, I had no mother. I drank whiskey, lived in a house with no walls. Girls visited and marveled at my room to breathe. When it was sunny, they let down their hair, drank fresh orange juice. We drank all morning, didn’t go to class. I knew […]
  • A Note on Absence, by Martin Corless-Smith (7/6/2012) - The story over having wished it otherwise The water surface/friendship The drunk euphoric Good Friday music Not in this lifetime A fig tree grows No miserable deed will do Space and time, dimensions that just bring more of this For anyone who has a nose Show gratitude A king sat in a box 8 p.m. […]
  • A Note, by Wislawa Szymborska (9/2/2015) - Life is the only way to get covered with leaves Catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings; to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur; to tell pain from everything it’s not; to squeeze inside events dawdle in views to seek the least of all possible mistakes. An extraordinary chance to remember […]
  • A Noun Sentence, by Mahmoud Darwish (2/29/2012) - A noun sentence, no verb to it or in it: to the sea the scent of the bed after making love … a salty perfume or a sour one. A noun sentence: my wounded joy like the sunset at your strange windows. My flower green like the phoenix. My heart exceeding my need, hesitant between […]
  • A Path Between Houses, by Greg Rappleye (3/17/2014) - Where is the dwelling place of light? And where is the house of darkness? Go about; walk the limits of the land. Do you know a path between them? Job 38:19-20 The enigma of August. Season of dust and teenage arson. The nightly whine of pickup trucks bouncing through the sumac beneath the Co-Operative power […]
  • A Portrait of the Artist as a Freemason, by Jascha Kessler (8/17/2015) - Where the heart was, a domestic chasm, an abyss bridged by snow As France, once great, collapsed into tourism and poetry Behind the sublimity, obscene Unable to command even the words useful to propose toasts Having filled space beneath the zodiac with debris And found the moon in its rounds merely vague This is the […]
  • A Reminiscence, by Richard O. Moore (12/3/2015) - Held in a late season At a shifting of worlds, In the golden balance of autumn, Out of love and reason We made our peace; Stood still in October In the failing light and sought, Each in the other, ease And release from silence, From the slow damnation Of speech that is weak And falls […]
  • A Score for Tourist Movies, by Mary Austin Speaker (5/27/2015) - If music plays with film then film is an illustration of music’s movement. Snap, blast, sever, sever, stop. Even the dog twitching his ears. If islands nestle in the ocean, and a statue rises above the pilgrim, then we are standing on a cliff and the pilgrim has reached her goal. The light is as […]
  • A Sense of Proportion, by William Stobb (9/8/2015) - On 20th between Madison and Ferry a line of municipal maples binds the community to an orderly, serviceable beauty. Platforms from which our sparrows and starlings might decorate our domestic sedans, perhaps these trees serve most to stimulate the car wash economy. Today, they remind me: unsatisfied with workaday species, my parents nailed oranges to […]
  • A Situation for Mrs. Biswas, by Prageeta Sharma (2/26/2015) - When I received the call I was in a store in Missoula, Montana. A store stocked with sparkling ephemera: glass fauna, tiny belfry bulbs, winter white birch and stump-lamps brandishing light cones, little shelves and branches hung with drops of ice and round silver baubles. I loved the store: it was cavernous, dark with wood […]
  • A Story, by Philip Levine (9/1/2012) - Everyone loves a story. Let’s begin with a house. We can fill it with careful rooms and fill the rooms with things—tables, chairs, cupboards, drawers closed to hide tiny beds where children once slept or big drawers that yawn open to reveal precisely folded garments washed half to death, unsoiled, stale, and waiting to be […]
  • A Supermarket in California, by Allen Ginsberg (2/27/2015) - What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at […]
  • A Thought of the Nile, by Leigh Hunt (9/12/2015) - It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream, And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands,— Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam, The […]
  • A Wicker Basket, by Robert Creeley (7/5/2012) - Comes the time when it’s later and onto your table the headwaiter puts the bill, and very soon after rings out the sound of lively laughter– Picking up change, hands like a walrus, and a face like a barndoor’s, and a head without any apparent size, nothing but two eyes– So that’s you, man, or […]
  • Abandonment Under the Walnut Tree, by D. A. Powell (6/30/2012) - “Your gang’s done gone away.” —The 119th Calypso, Cat’s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Something seems to have gnawed that walnut leaf. You face your wrinkles, daily, in the mirror. But the wrinkles are so slimming, they rather flatter. Revel in the squat luck of that unhappy tree, who can’t take a mate from among the […]
  • Accidents Of Birth, by William Meredith (8/30/2015) - Je vois les effroyables espaces de l’Univers qui m’enferment, et je me trouve attaché à un coin de cette vaste étendue, sans savoir pourquoi je suis plutôt en ce lieu qu’en un autre, ni pourquoi ce peu de temps qui m’est donné à vivre m’est assigné à ce point plutôt qu’à un autre de toute […]
  • Accomplishments, by Michael Chitwood (6/12/2015) - What you have not done is without error. What you have not said is beyond contradiction. What you understand of God was yesterday. Today a bicycle waits, chained to a bench. The success of this afternoon’s nap is the dream of lifting seven boxes, your week, sealed with clear tape. They stack, three to a […]
  • Acrobat, by Elise Paschen (8/8/2012) - The night you were conceived we balanced underneath a tent, amazed at the air-marveler, who, hand-over-hand, seized the stars, then braved the line to carry home a big-top souvenir umbrella. Earth-bound a year, you dare gravity, sliding from the couch to table. Mornings, on tiptoe, stretching fingers, you grab Saturn, Venus and the moons raining […]

  • Acts of Mind, by Catherine Barnett (4/2/2015) - What’s funny about this place is us regulars coming in with our different accoutrements, mine usually the little void of space I call honey, days I can barely get through I’m laughing so hard, see? In the back a woman squeezes oranges, someone presses the fresh white bread into communion wafers or party favors. In […]
  • Adjectives of Order, by Alexandra Teague (9/13/2012) - That summer, she had a student who was obsessed with the order of adjectives. A soldier in the South Vietnamese army, he had been taken prisoner when Saigon fell. He wanted to know why the order could not be altered. The sweltering city streets shook with rockets and helicopters. The city sweltering streets. On the […]
  • Advice to a Prophet, by Richard Wilbur (9/14/2012) - When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city, Mad-eyed from stating the obvious, Not proclaiming our fall but begging us In God’s name to have self-pity, Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range, The long numbers that rocket the mind; Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be […]
  • Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, by W. B. Yeats (11/2/2015) - Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly […]
  • After a Rainstorm, by Robert Wrigley (12/23/2015) - Because I have come to the fence at night, the horses arrive also from their ancient stable. They let me stroke their long faces, and I note in the light of the now-merging moon how they, a Morgan and a Quarter, have been by shake-guttered raindrops spotted around their rumps and thus made Appaloosas, the […]
  • After dark vapors have oppress’d our plains, by John Keats (4/24/2012) - After dark vapors have oppress’d our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieved of its pains, Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May; The eyelids with the passing coolness play Like rose […]
  • After Mandelshtam, by Reginald Gibbons (7/18/2015) - To the futile sound of midnight church bells, out back someone is rinsing her thoughts in unfathomable universal sky— a cold faint glowing. As always stars are white as salt on the blade of an old axe. The rain-barrel’s full, there’s ice in its mouth. Smash the ice—comets and stars melt away like salt, the […]
  • After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard, by Charles Wright (5/2/2015) - East of me, west of me, full summer. How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard. Birds fly back and forth across the lawn looking for home As night drifts up like a little boat. Day after day, I become of less use to myself. Like this mockingbird, I flit from one […]
  • After The Disaster, by Abigail Deutsch (9/11/2015) - New York City, 2001 One night, not long after the disaster, as our train was passing Astor, the car door opened with a shudder and a girl came flying down the aisle, hair that looked to be all feathers and a half-moon smile making open air of our small car. The crowd ignored her or […]
  • After the Movie, by Marie Howe (3/9/2014) - My friend Michael and I are walking home arguing about the movie. He says that he believes a person can love someone and still be able to murder that person. I say, No, that's not love. That's attachment. Michael says, No, that's love. You can love someone, then come to a day when you're forced […]
  • After Us, by Nikola Madzirov (9/30/2015) - One day someone will fold our blankets and send them to the cleaners to scrub the last grain of salt from them, will open our letters and sort them out by date instead of by how often they’ve been read. One day someone will rearrange the room’s furniture like chessmen at the start of a […]
  • Afterwards, by Philip Schultz (5/3/2015) - Suddenly everything feels afterwards, stoic and inevitable, my eyes ringed with the grease of rumor and complicity, my hands eager to hold any agreeable infatuation that might otherwise slip away. Suddenly it’s evening and the lights up and down the street appear hopeful, even magnanimous, swollen as they are with ancient grievances and souring schemes. […]
  • Airporter, by Khaled Mattawa (9/27/2015) - Yardley, Pennsylvania, an expensive dump and the van seats shake their broken bones. Duty-free liquor and cigarettes, the refineries and the harbor’s cranes. The moon digs its way out of the dirt. The branches of an evergreen sway. She’s nice the woman you don’t love. She kisses you hard and often holding your face in […]
  • All Us Beautiful Monsters, by Alex Lemon (2/22/2015) - The entire world wants To pretend to be a foreigner In a big box store & wander The aisles shouting, endlessly— But I am pretty sure that today Is my day to not just be a guy But to be the guy. A baby grows In each drawer of the million- Drawered cherrywood cabinet That […]
  • Almost There, by Timothy Liu (7/2/2015) - Hard to imagine getting anywhere near another semi- nude encounter down this concrete slab of interstate, the two of us all thumbs— white-throated swifts mating mid-flight instead of buckets of crispy wings thrown down hoi polloi— an army of mouths eager to feed left without any lasting sustenance. Best get down on all fours. Ease […]
  • Altars of Light, by Pierre Joris (5/4/2012) - If the light is the soul then soul is what's all around me. It is you, it is around you too, it is you. The darkness is inside me, the opaqueness of organs folded upon organs-- to make light in the house of the body-- thus to bring the outside in, the impossible job. And […]
  • American Singer, by Matthew Zapruder (5/1/2015) - when I walk to the mailbox holding the letter that fails to say how sorry I am you feel your call or any words at all on that day would have stopped the great singer who long ago decided more quickly through to move I notice probably because you wrote that strange word funeral the […]
  • Amorosa Erranza, by Julian T. Brolaski (6/10/2012) - Cosi mi trovo in amorosa erranza. (Thus I find myself an errancer in love.) —Dante All my dark hardiments begin, so furious and so fell. All disarrayed in love I began to speak of Mariners. And when I saw the grove divided into double parts, which ways I took, diversely can I tell but can […]
  • An Arundel Tomb, by Philip Larkin (10/10/2015) - Side by side, their faces blurred, The earl and countess lie in stone, Their proper habits vaguely shown As jointed armour, stiffened pleat, And that faint hint of the absurd— The little dogs under their feet. Such plainness of the pre-baroque Hardly involves the eye, until It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still Clasped empty in […]
  • An Institute Is Closing, by Ish Klein (8/29/2015) - I’m not in with this mystery. Somebody steady me. Cool ocean breezes don’t make me laugh. I’m in with noisy metal little nils. A million apologies. I must have made more. You were sensitive, you needed them No you weren’t and you didn’t. In fact . . . oh forget it! In the middle of […]
  • An Octave Above Thunder, by Carol Muske-Dukes (9/4/2012) - … reverberation                               Of thunder of spring over distant mountains                               He who was living is now dead                               We who were living are now dying                               With a little patience.   –T. S. Eliot, “What the Thunder Said”   1   She began as we huddled, six of us, in the cellar, raising her […]
  • Anastasia & Sandman, by Larry Levis (9/9/2012) - The brow of a horse in that moment when The horse is drinking water so deeply from a trough It seems to inhale the water, is holy. I refuse to explain. When the horse had gone the water in the trough, All through the empty summer, Went on reflecting clouds & stars. The horse cropping […]
  • Ancient Theories, by Nick Lantz (8/20/2015) - A horse hair falls into the water and grows into an eel.     Even Aristotle believed that frogs                                formed from mud,that mice sprouted like seedlings in the damp hay.      I used to believe the world spoke                           in code. I lay awakeand tried to parse the flashes of the streetlight—       obscured, revealed,                    obscured by the wind-sprung […]
  • And You Thought You Were the Only One, by Mark Bibbins (2/28/2012) - Someone waits at my door. Because he is dead he has time but I have my secrets– this is what separates us from the dead. See, I could order take-out or climb down the fire escape, so it’s not as though he is keeping me from anything I need. While this may sound like something […]
  • Animal Graves, by Chase Twichell (5/16/2015) - The mower flipped it belly up, a baby garter less than a foot long, dull green with a single sharp stripe of pale manila down its back, same color as the underside which was cut in two places, a loop of intestine poking out. It wouldn’t live, so I ran the blades over it again, […]
  • Annabel Lee, by Edgar Allan Poe (4/11/2015) - It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, […]
  • Another Feeling, by Ruth Stone (9/14/2015) - Once you saw a drove of young pigs crossing the highway. One of them pulling his body by the front feet, the hind legs dragging flat. Without thinking, you called the Humane Society. They came with a net and went for him. They were matter of fact, uniformed; there were two of them, their truck […]
  • Another Poem on My Daughter’s Birthday, by Craig Morgan Teicher (2/28/2015) - There must be soft words for an evening like this, when the breeze caresses like gentle fingertips all over. I don’t know how not to write darkly and sad. But it’s two years today since my little girl was born, cut safely from the noose. We meant nothing but hope; how near death is to […]
  • Another Rehearsal for Morning, by Joseph Massey (4/6/2012) - Beyond a hand held beyond itself the mist is too thick to see. A dream fragment (a phrase I wanted to remember) goes mute in this— extinguished. Call it consciousness. What we lose to recover. Acacia branches bend the hill’s edge off-orange. A blur, a deeper blur. A clarity I can’t carry.
  • Antigonish [I met a man who wasn’t there], by Hughes Mearns (2/21/2012) - Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there He wasn’t there again today I wish, I wish he’d go away… When I came home last night at three The man was waiting there for me But when I looked around the hall I couldn’t see him there at all! Go away, go […]
  • Antique, by Arthur Rimbaud (8/16/2015) - Graceful son of Pan! Around your forehead crowned with small flowers and berries, your eyes, precious spheres, are moving. Spotted with brownish wine lees, your cheeks grow hollow. Your fangs are gleaming. Your chest is like a lyre, jingling sounds circulate between your blond arms. Your heart beats in that belly where the double sex […]
  • Any God, by Gail Martin (7/22/2015) - The rocks beneath her heart began to move the night her daughter lost her native tongue. No god of French-milled soap and lavender could build a church on cradled hands and love. The night that artist lost her native tongue something seismic dropped, rolled away, faith in that childish church of hands tested and sung, […]
  • anyone lived in a pretty how town, by E. E. Cummings (3/15/2015) - anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did. Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few […]
  • Anyway, by Richard Siken (3/1/2015) - He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand. He was dead anyway, a ghost. I’m surprised I saw his hand at all. The moon, of course, is always there—day moon, but it’s still there; behind the clouds but it’s still there. I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice […]
  • April to May, by Joyce Peseroff (4/30/2015) - 1. It is cold enough for rain to coagulate and fall in heavy drops. Tonight a skin of ice will grow over the bones of the smallest bush, making it droop like the wrist of someone carrying a heavy suitcase. This moving on, from season to season, is exhausting and violent, the break from the […]
  • Arms, by Richard Tayson (6/1/2015) - I’m late for the birth- day party, it’s one of those cool after- noons when the world is clear, is made of glass, the sky so blue you want to look up at the very center of its pupil in case you get a glimpse of what comes after we leave here. I’m thinking my […]
  • Around Us, by Marvin Bell (3/27/2015) - We need some pines to assuage the darkness when it blankets the mind, we need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly as a plane’s wing, and a worn bed of needles to pad the rumble that fills the mind, and a blur or two of a wild thing that sees and is not seen. […]
  • As one listens to the rain, by Octavio Paz (10/17/2015) - Listen to me as one listens to the rain, not attentive, not distracted, light footsteps, thin drizzle, water that is air, air that is time, the day is still leaving, the night has yet to arrive, figurations of mist at the turn of the corner, figurations of time at the bend in this pause, listen […]
  • Ashes, by Paula Meehan (8/12/2015) - The tide comes in; the tide goes out again washing the beach clear of what the storm dumped. Where there were rocks, today there is sand; where sand yesterday, now uncovered rocks. So I think on where her mortal remains might reach landfall in their transmuted forms, a year now since I cast them from […]
  • At the Vietnam Memorial, by George Bilgere (11/18/2015) - The last time I saw Paul Castle it was printed in gold on the wall above the showers in the boys’ locker room, next to the school record for the mile. I don’t recall his time, but the year was 1968 and I can look across the infield of memory to see him on the […]
  • Atlantic City Sunday Morning, by Gregory Pardlo (8/22/2012) - Plow-piled snow shrouded in shadow from the abbreviating sun, snow frosted with the exhaust of tour buses. Pigeons shift in congress. Sun glints windshields & chrome like cotton blooms in the monitors. Surveillance here is catholic. From cornices cameras oscillate like raven-heads nestled along palisades. Cameras mind entrances, pedestrians, traffic, the landscape from land’s end […]
  • Atlantis—A Lost Sonnet, by Eavan Boland (5/14/2012) - How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder that a whole city—arches, pillars, colonnades, not to mention vehicles and animals—had all one fine day gone under? I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then. Surely a great city must have been missed? I miss our old city — white pepper, […]
  • Audience, by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge (9/29/2012) - 1 People think, at the theatre, an audience is tricked into believing it’s looking at life. The film image is so large, it goes straight into your head. There’s no room to be aware of or interested in people around you. Girls and cool devices draw audience, but unraveling the life of a real human […]
  • Auguries of Innocence, by William Blake (9/8/2012) - To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour. A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage. A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons Shudders hell through all its regions. A […]
  • August, 1953, by David Wojahn (6/3/2012) - A nurse gathers up the afterbirth. My mother * had been howling but now could sleep. * By this time I am gone—also gathered up * & wheeled out. Above my jaundiced face the nurses hover. * Outside, a scab commands a city bus. The picketers battle cops * & ten thousand Soviet conscripts in […]
  • Austerity, by Janet Loxley Lewis (3/5/2014) - From “Cold Hills” I have lived so long On the cold hills alone … I loved the rock And the lean pine trees, Hated the life in the turfy meadow, Hated the heavy, sensuous bees. I have lived so long Under the high monotony of starry skies, I am so cased about With the clean […]
  • Autumn, by Richard Garcia (9/22/2015) - Both lying on our sides, making love in spoon position when she’s startled, What’s that? She means the enormous ship passing before you- maybe not that large, is it a freighter or a passenger ship? But it seems huge in the dark and it’s so close. That’s a poem you say, D. H. Lawrence-Have you […]
  • —(Soma)tic 5: Storm SOAKED Bread, by CAConrad (9/18/2012) - —for Julian Brolaski Sit outside under shelter of a doorway, pavilion, or umbrella on a park bench, but somewhere outside where you can easily touch, smell, taste, FEEL the storm. Lean your face into the weather, face pointed UP to the sky, stay there for a bit with eyes closed while water fills the wells […]
  • B-Sides from my Idol Tryouts, by Harmony Holiday (8/5/2015) - 1. Just like in true life The wild geese approaching treason, now federated along one keep May we find a rafter 2. I like the way you don’t go into the cabin That is how I like it: methodically, mythically, my accidents are protests, are my only protests, they are never accidents 3. We even […]
  • Back in Seaside, by Shanna Compton (12/20/2015) - Rain interchangeable with the walls it falls against alphabetless like a neon ring above an extincted window showcasing something formerly fabulous now kinda poignantly disappeared. I guess that means we’re back in Seaside (since we must begin somewhere) and it’s probably summer but can’t be as long ago as the date you suggest since I […]

  • Back, by Beckian Fritz Goldberg (10/24/2015) - The god of the back must be a lonely god, god in the shape of man-headed hawk. Long ago a man had been sailing the river and the hawk had been flying beside him for days. Mornings, the man would wake and look, yes, there it was, dark tip-to-tip, the hawk. His hawk, he began […]
  • Ballad, by Sonia Sanchez (4/20/2015) - (after the spanish) forgive me if i laugh you are so sure of love you are so young and i too old to learn of love. the rain exploding in the air is love the grass excreting her green wax is love and stones remembering past steps is love, but you. you are too young […]
  • Bardo, by Peter Gizzi (4/16/2014) - I’ve spent my life in a lone mechanical whine, this combustion far off. How fathomless to be embedded in glacial ice, what piece of self hiding there. I am not sure about meaning but understand the wave. No more Novalis out loud. No Juan de la Cruz singing “I do not die to die.” No […]
  • Be Drunk, by Charles Baudelaire (5/10/2015) - You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk. And […]
  • Beating his lead, by Hans Faverey (10/16/2015) - Beating his lead with the blunt end of his axe, flattening it in order to forget that he is a child of death who wants to weight his net. Until it is suddenly done and the one who did not disappear stands in my room, taking me in; still lying whether I am, and how. […]
  • Beatrix is three, by Adrian Mitchell (12/18/2015) - At the top of the stairs I ask for her hand. O.K. She gives it to me. How her fist fits my palm, A bunch of consolation. We take our time Down the steep carpetway As I wish silently That the stairs were endless.
  • Beautiful Poetry, by Camille Guthrie (4/7/2015) - “Being so caught up So mastered.” —Yeats I was too shy to say anything but Your poems are so beautiful. What kinds of things, feelings, or ideas inspire you, I mean, outside the raw experiences of your life? He turned a strange crosshatched color as if he stood in a clouded painting, and said, Thanks, […]
  • Beauty Supply, by Lee Ann Brown (11/30/2015) - Sheaves of wheat in cement relief Supply the beauties of Archer Ave. Past the scaffolded brick church spire We turn on the vacant corner lot Through winds worthy of Hopkins (Gerard M.) New words — Alexus — Everything must go "Include everything in poetry" Even the things you think are nothing Like the way the […]
  • Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry, by Howard Nemerov (2/26/2012) - Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle That while you watched turned to pieces of snow Riding a gradient invisible From silver aslant to random, white, and slow. There came a moment that you couldn’t tell. And then they clearly flew instead of fell.
  • Becoming Weather, 21, by Chris Martin (4/12/2012) -                     I was out interviewing clouds         amassing                     the notes of a sky pornographer    while patches                                              of the city subnormalized by fear of fear            like a reef bleaching closed                     I took to the streets                               looking for a human velocity               feeling                 disequilibrium                                          heavy in the abundance                              of summer light                                                        the silent apathy               of stars     which is neither                                               silent nor apathetic I             am       becoming                 weather                                                                                  and               I […]
  • Bed in Summer, by Robert Louis Stevenson (11/1/2015) - In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people’s feet Still going past me in the street. And […]
  • Before, by Carl Adamshick (2/7/2012) - I always thought death would be like traveling in a car, moving through the desert, the earth a little darker than sky at the horizon, that your life would settle like the end of a day and you would think of everyone you ever met, that you would be the invisible passenger, quiet in the […]
  • Bells II, by John Ashbery (6/30/2015) - For just as a misunderstanding germinates in a clear sky, climbing like a comma from rack to misunderstood rack of worried clouds, now difficult, now brusque, foregrounded, amoral, the last birds took off into the abyss. Now it was just us, though shielded, separate, disparate. It almost seems— and yet it doesn’t. Broken glass announces […]
  • Bent Orbit, by Elaine Equi (7/18/2012) - I wind my way across a black donut hole and space that clunks. Once I saw on a stage, as if at the bottom of a mineshaft, the precise footwork of some mechanical ballet. It was like looking into the brain of a cuckoo clock and it carried some part of me away forever. No […]
  • Beside You on Main Street, by Jillian Weise (6/16/2015) - We were stepping out of a reading in October, the first cold night, and we were following this couple, were they at the reading? and because we were lost, I called out to them, “Are you going to the after party?” The woman laughed and said no and the man kept walking, and she was […]
  • Beyond the Years, by Paul Laurence Dunbar (2/18/2012) - I Beyond the years the answer lies, Beyond where brood the grieving skies And Night drops tears. Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise And doff its fears, And carping Sorrow pines and dies— Beyond the years. II Beyond the years the prayer for rest Shall beat no more within the breast; The darkness clears, And […]
  • Big City, by Amaud Jamaul Johnson (8/27/2015) - He promises a canary dress, white gloves, says they’ll eat chops, thick as her thighs, that they’ll order doubles of the “finest,” see all the Big Names when they arrive. But it’s the thought of them dead: half of what they own draped around them, her head against his chest, his back slack against the […]
  • Birches, by Robert Frost (7/1/2012) - When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay As ice-storms do.  Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain.  They click upon […]
  • Birds Again, by Jim Harrison (6/14/2012) - A secret came a week ago though I already knew it just beyond the bruised lips of consciousness. The very alive souls of thirty-five hundred dead birds are harbored in my body. It’s not uncomfortable. I’m only temporary habitat for these not-quite- weightless creatures. I offered a wordless invitation and now they’re roosting within me, […]
  • Birds in the Night, by Luis Cernuda (2/24/2015) - The French—or was it the English?—government placed a plaque On that house at 8 Great College Street, Camden Town, London, Where in a room Rimbaud and Verlaine, a peculiar couple, Lived, drank, worked, and fornicated For a few brief stormy weeks. No doubt the ambassador and the mayor attended the dedication, All the same people […]
  • Birth of Canada as a Nation, July First, 1867, by James McIntyre (7/1/2015) - Hail Britannia’s noblest daughter, Who is surrounded by the water Of many a lake and broad sea, Land of beaver and of maple tree. Her lofty brow is wreathed with smiles, For from the far Atlantic isles In pomp have come their delegates, All seeking to unite their fates. With Canada great northern queen, And […]
  • Blackberrying, by Sylvia Plath (11/12/2015) - Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries, Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly, A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes Ebon in the hedges, fat With blue-red juices. […]
  • Blackwater Fever, by Vandana Khanna (6/20/2015) - They didn’t find it in me until months later— just like Vallejo who died on a rainy day far from the heat rising over a garden in silvers and reds—far away from the din of buses, tobacco vendors, cows that overran the streets with their holiness. Laid on the surface of the Ganges, the thin […]
  • Blood, by C. Dale Young (8/3/2015) - Someone has already pulled a knife across my chest, and the rope has already gripped our wrists drawing blood. I am naked, and I cannot be sure if you are as well. In the room, the men come and go, yelling blood bath, half-blood, blood-bitch. We never hear the word trueblood. In my dreams I […]
  • Blue or Green, by James Galvin (2/24/2012) - We don't belong to each other. We belong together. Some poems belong together to prove the intentionality of subatomic particles. Some poems eat with scissors. Some poems are like kissing a porcupine. God, by the way, is disappointed in some of your recent choices. Some poems swoop. When she said my eyes were definitely blue, […]
  • Blue Oxen, by Dara Wier (7/9/2015) - (it’s scaffolding) (it’s supposed to be temporary) (the domino effect) (had been forgotten about) (it was in storage) (nobody knew where) (that’s a logging road) (you can see its gutters) (they leave handprints) (they shudder with dolor) (nobody could settle on any particular color) (they meant different things to different people) (for luck) (on the […]
  • Body Mostly Flown, by Terese Svoboda (7/9/2015) - A De Chirico head aslant on a coverlet, body mostly flown, the dazed prayers dumb. The ritual cigarette, the ritual drink: incense, holy water. No ambivalence, the woman inside fled, the whispers I make of tenderness—hers—she sleeps through. She’s in that corridor, tunnel, the light is left on— shut if off. But the nurse has […]
  • Books, by Gerald Stern (4/26/2012) - How you loved to read in the snow and when your face turned to water from the internal heat combined with the heavy crystals or maybe it was reversus you went half-blind and your eyelashes turned to ice the time you walked through swirls with dirty tears not far from the rat-filled river or really […]
  • Bread and Cake, by Kevin Prufer (12/5/2015) - The black Mercedes with the Ayn Rand vanity plate crashed through the glass bus stop and came to rest among a bakery’s upturned tables. In the stunned silence, fat pigeons descended to the wreckage and pecked at the scattered bread and cake. The driver slept, head to the wheel. The pigeons grew rich with crumbs. […]
  • Breaking Across Us Now, by Katie Ford (2/8/2012) - I began to see things in parts again, segments, a pen drawn against the skin to show where to cut, lamppost through the stained glass with its etchings of light against the wall — it was the middle of the night. It was something we would tell no one: The hospital roads with standing water, […]
  • Breathing, by Josephine Dickinson (11/22/2015) - As I walk up the rise into the silence of snow, in the sough of brittle snowflakes, you are breathing shallow breaths in bed. A paper tissue lies discarded where I dabbed a drip from your nose. As I sit in another room you are swishing your lips. You have become the inside of my […]
  • Brooklyn Anchorage, by Lisa Jarnot (12/16/2015) - and at noon I will fall in love  and nothing will have meaning  except for the brownness of  the sky, and tradition, and water  and in the water off the railway  in New Haven all the lights  go on across the sun, and for  millennia those who kiss fall into  hospitals, riding trains, wearing  black […]
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  • Burning of the Three Fires, by Jeanne Marie Beaumont (4/27/2012) - (June 30, France) i I set the cookbook on fire by holding it close to the reading lamp ii I began the reading lamp fire by holding it close to romance iii I lit the romance by holding it close to the cookbook
  • Butterflies Poem, by Fawziyya Abu Khalid (9/7/2015) - When you abandoned me, I didn’t need an elegy because you had planted a flight of butterflies in my heart whose path I follow like a bedouin who knows how to perfectly trace the footsteps of his traunt mare.
  • Caged Bird, by Matthew J. Spireng (11/6/2015) - Some believe there’s somewhere in the brain that senses minor fluctuations in the Earth’s magnetic field and uses a sort of memory of that to travel the same route year after year over thousands of miles, over open ocean on moonless, clouded nights, and a built-in clock that, save for weather’s influence, tells when it’s […]
  • Call Us, by Sally Van Doren (4/2/2014) - Let’s use our nicknames When we apply for this next job Even though it’s past our bedtime And our current paycheck Can’t shut up the muse Who mewls at the dinner table Begging for a crust of bread To sate the nightly terrors. For they come, don’t they, Leaving empty spaces numbers Are supposed to […]
  • Canzone Delle Preposizioni, by Caroline Knox (7/17/2015) - I packed up the books: Under Milk Wood, Of Mice and Men, Under the Window, Under the Volcano, Up from Slavery, The Thunder- ing Herd, Under the Greenwood Tree, The Over- Coat, The Changing Light at Sandover, Under- world, Out of Africa, Paris Trout; and I went over to the Under- woods’ house over on […]
  • Carmel Highlands, by Janet Loxley Lewis (12/11/2015) - Below the gardens and the darkening pines The living water sinks among the stones, Sinking yet foaming till the snowy tones Merge with the fog drawn landward in dim lines. The cloud dissolves among the flowering vines, And now the definite mountain-side disowns The fluid world, the immeasurable zones. Then white oblivion swallows all designs. […]
  • Caro Nome, by Kathy Fagan (8/19/2015) - Jets shake the air and snow breaks off a tree branch in little puffs. One cardinal. Cars moving slowly downhill on the ice. It is always someone’s last day. Dearest Bird, she read from the card she’d found unattached to the flowers, Happy Day To Our Sweetest Hart. Love Monster And Beef Dad. Their secret […]
  • Casualty, by Seamus Heaney (6/2/2015) - I He would drink by himself And raise a weathered thumb Towards the high shelf, Calling another rum And blackcurrant, without Having to raise his voice, Or order a quick stout By a lifting of the eyes And a discreet dumb-show Of pulling off the top; At closing time would go In waders and peaked […]
  • Centrifugal, by Douglas S. Jones (11/12/2015) - The spider living in the bike seat has finally spun its own spokes through the wheels. I have seen it crawl upside down, armored black and jigging back to the hollow frame, have felt the stickiness break as the tire pulls free the stitches of last night’s sewing. We’ve ridden this bike together for a […]
  • Children in a Field, by Angela Shaw (11/20/2015) - They don’t wade in so much as they are taken. Deep in the day, in the deep of the field, every current in the grasses whispers hurry hurry, every yellow spreads its perfume like a rumor, impelling them further on. It is the way of girls. It is the sway of their dresses in the […]
  • Chirality, by Rae Armantrout (4/15/2014) - If I didn’t need to do anything, would I? Would I oscillate in two or three dimensions? Would I summon a beholder and change chirality for “him”? A massless particle passes through the void with no resistance. Ask what it means to pass through the void. Ask how it differs from not passing.  
  • Christmas at Sea, by Robert Louis Stevenson (12/22/2015) - The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; The decks were like a slide, where a seamen scarce could stand; The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee. They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; But ‘twas […]
  • Christmas, by Bill Manhire (12/25/2015) - Evening: the nervous suburbs levitate. Height does us no harm, now we are high above the mineral pools, above the flash hotel whose only use is treachery. Someone knocks on a door and you crouch behind the bed. Down in the bar, the small girls toast their parents, the brother breaks a large bone for […]
  • Churchgoing, by Marilyn Nelson (4/10/2015) - The Lutherans sit stolidly in rows; only their children feel the holy ghost that makes them jerk and bobble and almost destroys the pious atmosphere for those whose reverence bows their backs as if in work. The congregation sits, or stands to sing, or chants the dusty creeds automaton. Their voices drone like engines, on […]
  • Cinque Terre, by Jon Pineda (11/8/2015) - Between the train’s long slide and the sun ricocheting off the sea, anyone would have fallen silent in those words, the language of age in her face, the birds cawing over the broken earth, gathering near its stones and chapel doors. In the marina, the sea and its bones have grown smaller. Though the tide […]
  • City Lights 1961, by Diane di Prima (3/28/2015) - Going there for the first time it was so much smaller then that crowded downstairs full of poetry racks of tattered little mags against the wall those rickety white tables where folks sat reading/writing Vesuvio’s was like an adjunct office Arriving again a year later, two kids in tow Lawrence gave me a huge stack […]
  • City Moon, by Francisco Aragón (3/30/2015) - Perfect disc of moon, huge and simmering low on the capital’s filthy horizon— ¡Ay, qué luna más hermosa! she says pushing the stroller slowly down Atocha. And gorgeous too the firm-thighed boys from Lisbon a block away, who work Kilometer Zero’s sidewalk, the neon shoestore they lean against cupping the flames of passing strangers. The […]

  • City, by Ander Monson (5/7/2015) - Sometimes it is empty and it reminds us all of loneliness. Though we are in love or in affairs that approximate love or long-term relationships we can still be lonely and we are still lonely when it is between 3am and 4am and the world is full of nothingness. We are inside the city. We […]
  • Civilization, by Carl Phillips (3/9/2012) - There’s an art to everything. How the rain means April and an ongoingness like that of song until at last it ends. A centuries-old set of silver handbells that once an altar boy swung, processing…You’re the same wilderness you’ve always been, slashing through briars, the bracken of your invasive self. So he said, in a […]
  • Clonazepam, by Donald Dunbar (8/11/2015) - Finally, stability. Finally, the fractal iteration of kings. The legless herds lie still in the fields and eventually the fences crumble and the wilderness returns. Like cinnamon coaxed back out of the tongue, this book is a formalist approach for a kiss. Or vice versa. Like a kiss is oblivious, they don’t know their homestead […]
  • Coda, by Marilyn Hacker (5/29/2012) - Maybe it was jet lag, maybe not, but I was smoking in the kitchen: six, barely, still dark: beyond the panes, a mix of summer storm and autumn wind. I got back to you; have I got you back? What warmed me wasn’t coffee, it was our revivified combustion. In an hour, gray morning, but […]
  • Cognitive Deficit Market, by Joshua Corey (7/23/2012) - She has forgotten what she forgot this morning: her keys, toast in the toaster blackening the insides of beloved skulls, little planetariums projecting increasingly incomplete and fanciful constellations: the Gravid Ass, the Mesozoic Cartwheel, the Big Goatee, the Littlest Fascist. Outside her window a crowd gathers, seething in white confusion like milk boiling dry in […]
  • Cold Blooded Creatures, by Elinor Wylie (11/26/2015) - Man, the egregious egoist, (In mystery the twig is bent,) Imagines, by some mental twist, That he alone is sentient Of the intolerable load Which on all living creatures lies, Nor stoops to pity in the toad The speechless sorrow of its eyes. He asks no questions of the snake, Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom […]
  • Cold Morning, by Eamon Grennan (12/7/2015) - Through an accidental crack in the curtain I can see the eight o’clock light change from charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone, telling its tale of how hard the night […]
  • Coming Up Into the Light, by Julie Williams (10/4/2015) - You can only hunker down so long & then the wind dies or rushes on to some other place to do its damage & all that time you've been huddled there together holding your breath, hoping against wildest hope that up aboveground nothing you love has been blown away hoping with a deep longing the […]
  • Compulsively Allergic to the Truth, by Jeffrey McDaniel (5/9/2015) - I’m sorry I was late. I was pulled over by a cop for driving blindfolded with a raspberry-scented candle flickering in my mouth. I’m sorry I was late. I was on my way when I felt a plot thickening in my arm. I have a fear of heights. Luckily the Earth is on the second […]
  • Concordance [Working backward in sleep], by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge (9/23/2012) - Poem by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge Illustration by Kiki Smith Working backward in sleep, the last thing you numbed to is what wakes you. What if that image were Eros as words? What would it be like if you contemplated my words and I felt you? Animals, an owl, frog, open their eyes, and a mirror forms […]
  • Confessions: My Father, Hummingbirds, and Frantz Fanon, by Benjamin Alire Sáenz (6/10/2015) - Every effort is made to bring the colonised person to admit the inferiority of his culture… —Frantz Fanon And there are days when storms hover Over my house, their brooding just this side of rage, An open hand about to slap a face. You won’t believe me When I tell you it is not personal. […]
  • Consolation Miracle, by Chad Davidson (5/27/2015) - In the pewless church of San Juan Chula, a Neocatholic Tzozil Indian wrings a chicken’s neck. Through piñoned air, stars from tourist flashbulbs flame, reflecting in the reddened eyes, in the mirrors statuary cling to, inside their plate- glass boxes. A mother fills a shot- glass with fire. Others offer up moon- shine swelling in […]
  • Constellations, by Steven Heighton (11/21/2015) - After bedtime the child climbed on her dresser and peeled phosphorescent stars off the sloped gable-wall, dimming the night vault of her ceiling like a haze or the interfering glow of a great city, small hands anticipating eons as they raided the playful patterns her father had mapped for her — black holes now where […]
  • Continuity, by A. R. Ammons (5/19/2015) - I’ve pressed so far away from my desire that if you asked me what I want I would, accepting the harmonious completion of the drift, say annihilation, probably.
  • Corpse Flower, Luna Moth, by Daniel Tobin (3/10/2014) - The deep wine of it risen tall above the buried corm, its ornamental spathe furrowed thought- fully, to human warmth. O un-branched inflouresence, amorpho- phalos, misshapen swelling, with its allure of rotting flesh for the scarabs to follow, hollow, to the sun-lit trove, as though all dark were light unbidden by our parsing eye, and […]
  • Cortege, by Mary Fell (10/5/2015) - A cold rain comforts the sky. Everything ash-colored under clouds. I take my place in the crowd, move without will as the procession moves, a gray wave breaking against the street. Up ahead, one hundred and forty seven coffins float, wreckage of lives. I follow the box without a name. In it whose hand encloses […]
  • corydon & alexis, redux, by D. A. Powell (5/28/2012) - and yet we think that song outlasts us all: wrecked devotion the wept face of desire, a kind of savage caring that reseeds itself and grows in clusters oh, you who are young, consider how quickly the body deranges itself how time, the cruel banker, forecloses us to snowdrifts white as god’s own ribs what […]
  • Costumes Exchanging Glances, by Mary Jo Bang (3/11/2014) - The rhinestone lights blink off and on. Pretend stars. I’m sick of explanations. A life is like Russell said of electricity, not a thing but the way things behave. A science of motion toward some flat surface, some heat, some cold. Some light can leave some after-image but it doesn’t last. Isn’t that what they […]
  • Could Have Danced All Night, by Dean Young (3/6/2015) - The wolf appointed to tear me apart is sure making slow work of it. This morning just one eye weeping, a single chip out of my back and the usual maniacal wooden bird flutes in the brain. Listen to that feeble howl like having fangs is something to regret, like we shouldn’t give thanks for […]
  • Countess Lethargy, by Terese Svoboda (10/19/2015) - Dogs slink around her bed in hunger. Lest you make sacred her image on a brick, on your drive or thumb, she needs to be turned twice a day plant-ish, in her deshabille. Lethargy has its roots in lethal. This is the truth you must share or die, the waves over your head, the waving […]
  • crack house, by Quraysh Ali Lansana (5/17/2015) - greeter she hustles us in eyes tired shadows stutter behind nervous trees   outer room screen door grime a porous portal paneling drips frantic carpet   living room up early ricki lake an endless loop tv’s wide blue mouth the only thing moving   pantry she fast food she buy one get one free   […]
  • Cracked Ice, by Julie Sheehan (6/21/2015) - When I return, I’ll come in clapboard, stained chestnut, with lead-based paint on radiators, old-fashioned, and a little bit insane but sturdy to a fault. A spalting grain on punky myrtle and no refrigerator when I return. I’ll come in clapboard, stained shake shingles skittering on skewed roof planes that snarl the corner lot like […]
  • Credo, by Matthew Rohrer (6/7/2012) - I believe there is something else entirely going on but no single person can ever know it, so we fall in love. It could also be true that what we use everyday to open cans was something much nobler, that we’ll never recognize. I believe the woman sleeping beside me doesn’t care about what’s going […]
  • Cruel Cogito, by Ken Chen (11/24/2015) - How joyous!, passing this time alone with your father, how bright his golden laugh which drew you to laugh yourself uncontrolled, how sweet the happy hour oysters you two pry and eat, piling wobbling shells that glisten on the table while the pianist plays by the kitchen doors. You find yourself reminded of what you […]
  • Curtains, by Ruth Stone (3/22/2012) - Putting up new curtains, other windows intrude. As though it is that first winter in Cambridge when you and I had just moved in. Now cold borscht alone in a bare kitchen. What does it mean if I say this years later? Listen, last night I am on a crying jag with my landlord, Mr. […]
  • Dangerous Astronomy, by Sherman Alexie (9/4/2015) - I wanted to walk outside and praise the stars, But David, my baby son, coughed and coughed. His comfort was more important than the stars So I comforted and kissed him in his dark Bedroom, but my comfort was not enough. His mother was more important than the stars So he cried for her breast […]
  • Dawn Chorus, by Sasha Dugdale (9/25/2015) - March 29, 2010 Every morning since the time changed I have woken to the dawn chorus And even before it sounded, I dreamed of it Loud, unbelievably loud, shameless, raucous And once I rose and twitched the curtains apart Expecting the birds to be pressing in fright Against the pane like passengers But the garden […]
  • Days of Me, by Stuart Dischell (6/1/2015) - When people say they miss me, I think how much I miss me too, Me, the old me, the great me, Lover of three women in one day, Modest me, the best me, friend To waiters and bartenders, hearty Laugher and name rememberer, Proud me, handsome and hirsute In soccer shoes and shorts On the […]
  • Dead Fires, by Jessie Redmon Fauset (7/26/2015) - If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, Then better far the hateful fret, the sting. Better the wound forever seeking balm Than this gray calm! Is this pain’s surcease? Better far the ache, The long-drawn dreary day, the night’s white wake, Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath Than passion’s death!
  • Dead Straight, by Olive Senior (12/21/2015) - I’m traveling back home to you but it’s an omen: my road map’s creased and torn along dead straight lines. The hill and gully ride is over now and I’m flat out on the dead straight highway with a toll. Not a glimmer of the coastline as I try to make it home to you […]
  • December 2, 2002, by Juliana Spahr (12/2/2015) - As it happens every night, beloveds, while we turned in the night sleeping uneasily the world went on without us. We live in our own time zone and there are only a small million of us in this time zone and the world as a result has a tendency to begin and end without us. […]
  • December, by Michael Miller (12/1/2015) - I want to be a passenger in your car again and shut my eyes while you sit at the wheel, awake and assured in your own private world, seeing all the lines on the road ahead, down a long stretch of empty highway without any other faces in sight. I want to be a passenger […]
  • Deer Dancer, by Joy Harjo (9/16/2012) - Nearly everyone had left that bar in the middle of winter except the hardcore. It was the coldest night of the year, every place shut down, but not us. Of course we noticed when she came in. We were Indian ruins. She was the end of beauty. No one knew her, the stranger whose tribe […]
  • Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg, by Richard Hugo (11/10/2015) - You might come here Sunday on a whim. Say your life broke down. The last good kiss you had was years ago. You walk these streets laid out by the insane, past hotels that didn’t last, bars that did, the tortured try of local drivers to accelerate their lives. Only churches are kept up. The […]
  • Demon and The Dove, by Miguel Murphy (12/1/2015) - The psychotherapist has a sad dove dying in his eye. He looks at the light like wood holding fire in it reflected in small caves and tells me there is a window where love weeps over what it cannot know. The dove’s trembling, flickering like a sun alone in the dark nest of his face, […]
  • Descriptions of Heaven and Hell, by Mark Jarman (2/10/2012) - The wave breaks And I’m carried into it. This is hell, I know, Yet my father laughs, Chest-deep, proving I’m wrong. We’re safely rooted, Rocked on his toes. Nothing irked him more Than asking, “What is there Beyond death?” His theory once was That love greets you, And the loveless Don’t know what to say.
  • Details for Paterson, by William Carlos Williams (12/22/2015) - I just saw two boys. One of them gets paid for distributing circulars and he throws it down the sewer. I said, Are you a Boy Scout? He said, no. The other one was. I have implicit faith in the Boy Scouts If you talk about it long enough you'll finally write it— If you […]
  • Diary [Surface], by Rachel Zucker (3/27/2014) - Spring is not so very promising as it is the thing that looking back was fire, promising: ignition, aspiration; it was not under my thumb. Now when I pretend a future it is the moment he holds the thing I say new-born, delicate, sure to begin moving but I am burned out of it like […]
  • Difficult Body, by Mark Wunderlich (8/8/2015) - A story: There was a cow in the road, struck by a semi– half-moon of carcass and jutting legs, eyes already milky with dust and snow, rolled upward as if tired of this world tilted on its side. We drove through the pink light of the police cruiser, her broken flank blowing steam in the […]
  • Diptych: My Bracelet, by Jim Moore (10/22/2015) - 1 Before going to bed I take off my bracelet. It is meant to protect me. A dancer gave it to me: for decades she has known sorrow and beauty. Beloveds have come and gone. Mountains and forest fires. Lives that might have lived through her, but didn’t. Lives that do still live through her. […]
  • Directions for Lines that will Remain Unfinished, by Sarah Messer (5/12/2012) - Line to be sewn into a skirt hem held in my mouth ever since the  unraveling Line beneath a bridge for years without hope I stretched my arms into the river searching for you Line to be sent to the cornfield history is a hallway of leaves. Line written for electric wires your voice inside […]
  • Disciplines [Near adust. Caves. Closings], by Dawn Lundy Martin (7/31/2015) - Near adust. Caves. Closings. Relentlessly the body leaves the bed. Does things. A day is merry and eager for prosperity. It dings dings the bell in its own head. The ritual of masking the breasts in heavy fabric, of covering the legs and feet. A face from the mirror says, I am pretty, I am […]
  • Disgust, by Liam Rector (6/9/2015) - I was well towards the end Of middle-age before I Realized I loved saying Disgusting things but didn’t Really myself much enjoy hearing Them. They Go to the heart of life, I realize (I think Everyone recognizes this), Since almost everyone Can agree: Life, so Generally disgusting. But no one really Wants to hear That […]
  • Dividend Of The Social Opt Out, by Jennifer Moxley (10/26/2015) - How lovely it is not to go. To suddenly take ill. Not seriously ill, just a little under the weather. To feel slightly peaked, indisposed. Plagued by a vague ache, or a slight inexplicable chill. Perhaps such pleasures are denied to those who never feel obliged. If there are such. How pleasant to convey your […]
  • Diving into the Wreck, by Adrienne Rich (2/23/2012) - First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There […]
  • Do What Now, by Mike Young (3/20/2015) - for ET We are things embarrassing, strange, and hang around feeling everything things, things, considering beautiful that which does not consider anything. Are we? Strange and hang embarrassing, things around, beautiful feelings. Consider everything. That which considers we are. Feeling feeling, not beautiful. Hanging things. Everything we are, strange, which does not feel. Strange, that […]
  • Don Juan [If from great nature’s or our own abyss], by George Gordon Byron (9/24/2012) - If from great nature’s or our own abyss Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss— But then ‘t would spoil much good philosophy. One system eats another up, and this Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; For when his pious consort gave him stones In […]
  • Done With, by Ann Stanford (9/30/2012) - My house is torn down– Plaster sifting, the pillars broken, Beams jagged, the wall crushed by the bulldozer. The whole roof has fallen On the hall and the kitchen The bedrooms, the parlor. They are trampling the garden– My mother’s lilac, my father’s grapevine, The freesias, the jonquils, the grasses. Hot asphalt goes down Over […]
  • Drawing from Life, by Reginald Shepherd (4/18/2012) - Look: I am building absence out of this room’s air, I’m reading suppositions into summer’s script snarled on a varnished floor. It looks like a man. That knot’s his hand waving good-bye, that stippled stripe of grain’s the stacked-up vertebrae of his turned back. Small birds (sparrows or finches, or perhaps) are cluttering the trees […]
  • Drench, by Anne Stevenson (12/12/2015) - You sleep with a dream of summer weather, wake to the thrum of rain—roped down by rain. Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence. The mountains have had the sense to disappear. It’s the […]

  • Drift, by Brenda Shaughnessy (6/4/2015) - I’ll go anywhere to leave you but come with me. All the cities are like you anyway. Windows darken when I get close enough to see. Any place we want to stay’s polluted, the good spots taken already by those who ruin them. And restaurants we’d never find. We’d rut a ditch by a river […]
  • Driving out of Southern Worcester County, by Mary Fell (11/25/2015) - say goodbye to small towns their boundaries cutting across the names of dead indians, trees still remembering that speech their shelved histories leaning on years of drought, of rain, lives the immigrant knows nothing of canadian, pole, latin root their lives on rock this earth won’t give up their names the journey a word took […]
  • Drowsing over The Arabian Nights, by Thomas Kinsella (6/8/2015) - I nodded. The books agree, one hopes for too much. It is ridiculous. We are elaborate beasts. If we concur it is only in our hunger: the soiled gullet. And sleep’s airy nothing. And the moist matter of lust —if the whole waste of women could be gathered like one pit under swarming Man, then […]
  • Duende, by Tracy K. Smith (8/24/2012) - 1. The earth is dry and they live wanting. Each with a small reservoir Of furious music heavy in the throat. They drag it out and with nails in their feet Coax the night into being.  Brief believing. A skirt shimmering with sequins and lies. And in this night that is not night, Each word […]
  • During the Montenegrin Poetry Reading, by Tess Gallagher (6/6/2015) - Mira, like a white goddess, is translating so my left ear is a cave near Kotor where the sea lashes and rakes the iron darkness inside the black mountains. Young and old, the poets are letting us know this sweltering night, under a bridge near a river outside Karver Bookstore at the beginning of July, […]
  • E.H., by John Koethe (5/13/2015) - Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor, Not going left, not going right. —Stephen Sondheim I like to get drunk and I like to write. I search for ways in and can’t find them, But that doesn’t mean they’re not there. What isn’t There is the life between the words, the life that […]
  • Earth Tremors Felt in Missouri, by Mona Van Duyn (7/5/2015) - The quake last night was nothing personal, you told me this morning. I think one always wonders, unless, of course, something is visible: tremors that take us, private and willy-nilly, are usual. But the earth said last night that what I feel, you feel; what secretly moves you, moves me. One small, sensuous catastrophe makes […]
  • Eating Poetry, by Mark Strand (7/8/2012) - Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs […]
  • Echo, by Christina Georgina Rossetti (4/28/2012) - Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years. O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have […]
  • Eclogue In Line To View The Clock By Christian Marclay, by Brian Blanchfield (9/18/2015) - Okay, but now imagine someone, one of fifty, say, in the queue, fiftieth first and advancing little, somewhere within the seventy-two-hour window of efficacy for post-exposure prophylaxis, and, later, in the screening room watching The Clock with the few dozen others in rows behind and ahead who had waited too. He knows he has to […]
  • El Florida Room, by Richard Blanco (7/2/2015) - Not a study or a den, but El Florida as my mother called it, a pretty name for the room with the prettiest view of the lipstick-red hibiscus puckered up against the windows, the tepid breeze laden with the brown-sugar scent of loquats drifting in from the yard. Not a sunroom, but where the sun […]
  • Electricity, by Geoffrey Nutter (3/31/2015) - Children picking through the rocks beside the river on a spring day. What are they looking for? Old green net tangled on broken pilings; a couple embracing on the tumbledown esplanade. Some fishermen drinking beer from tall brown bottles. Broken shells, tire treads, rusted aluminum pull-tabs- downriver, near the sun, the great echoes and the […]
  • Elegy in Joy [excerpt], by Muriel Rukeyser (6/2/2012) - We tell beginnings: for the flesh and the answer, or the look, the lake in the eye that knows, for the despair that flows down in widest rivers, cloud of home; and also the green tree of grace, all in the leaf, in the love that gives us ourselves. The word of nourishment passes through […]
  • Emily Dickinson to the Rescue, by Michael Dickman (6/5/2015) - Standing in her house today all I could think of was whether she took a shit every morning or ever fucked anybody or ever fucked herself God’s poet singing herself to sleep You want these sorts of things for people Bodies and the earth and the earth inside Instead of white nightgowns and terrifying letters […]
  • Emplumada, by Lorna Dee Cervantes (9/26/2015) - When summer ended the leaves of snapdragons withered taking their shrill-colored mouths with them. They were still, so quiet. They were violet where umber now is. She hated and she hated to see them go. Flowers born when the weather was good – this she thinks of, watching the branch of peaches daring their ways […]
  • Empty, by Laura Mullen (10/14/2015) - Huge crystalline cylinders emerge from the water The future Where do they come from the King gushes these talking fish Show me at once We see the writer buried under a collapsing mountain of scribbled-over papers While ink blurts from an overturned bottle Speech is silver the King mutters Silence is They discover a fabulous […]
  • En Route, by Darcie Dennigan (3/12/2014) - The infant asleep in the trough is a Buddhist. This time of year is very, very old. Over eggs, that is all we can conclude, us who are asleep, who are dreaming this long dream. What if this infant could be awoken? There is someone in heaven who for centuries an infinite number of centuries, […]
  • Encounter, by Czeslaw Milosz (8/14/2015) - We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn. A red wing rose in the darkness. And suddenly a hare ran across the road. One of us pointed to it with his hand. That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive, Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture. […]
  • End Words, by Randall Mann (7/1/2015) - in memory of Reetika Vazirani (1962-2003) and Rachel Wetzsteon (1967-2009) Sewanee, Tennessee. Summer of ‘96, I went there for booze and poetry and rest. I danced a little dance; I talked a little shop. I forgot a recent ghost. “Invitation to a Ghost” was my favorite poem in Tennessee. And Justice taught my workshop. (God […]
  • Enemies, by Dante Micheaux (11/3/2015) -         [for Ishion Hutchinson] The thing about entertaining them, about keeping their company, about fraternizing, is you must remember they are bloodless and have many faces, though it’s easy enough to walk in sunlight, where either you or they become invisible, never together seen; easy to get in bed with them, to bed them, to be […]
  • Engines Within the Throne, by Cathy Park Hong (6/6/2015) - We once worked as clerks scanning moth-balled pages into the clouds, all memories outsourced except the fuzzy childhood bits when I was an undersized girl with a tic, they numbed me with botox I was a skinsuit of dumb expression, just fingerprints over my shamed all I wanted was snow to snuff the sun blades […]
  • Epilogue, by Amber Tamblyn (8/2/2015) - I took a break from writing about the dead and drinking from writing about the dead to walk around my childhood neighborhood. Everything’s for rent. Or for sale, for ten times the amount it’s worth. Palm trees are planted in front of a mural of palm trees under the Ocean Park Bridge. In the painting, […]
  • Epistemology of the Phone Booth, by Gregory Pardlo (4/1/2015) - I found the scrap of City Paper classified, the 1-900 number and photos like candidates there, in love’s voting machine. Discomfort station. No pissoir. Hothouse maybe for a fourteenth-year sprig: me. Light box to slideshow the introvert cloaked in a prepaid identity discreet as a shirttail in the fly. Ma Bell’s shelter was brutal & […]
  • Epistle: Leaving, by Kerrin McCadden (6/14/2015) - Dear train wreck, dear terrible engines, dear spilled freight, dear unbelievable mess, all these years later I think to write back. I was not who I am now. A sail is a boat, a bark is a boat, a mast is a boat and the train was you and me. Dear dark, dear paper, dear […]
  • Epithalamium, by Matthew Rohrer (5/31/2012) - In the middle garden is the secret wedding, that hides always under the other one and under the shiny things of the other one. Under a tree one hand reaches through the grainy dusk toward another. Two right hands. The ring is a weed that will surely die. There is no one else for miles, […]
  • Errançities, by Quincy Troupe (6/4/2012) - —for Edouard Glissant I. the mind wanders as a line of poetry taking flight meanders in the way birds spreading wings lift into space knowing skies are full of surprises like errançities encountering restless journeys as in the edgy solos of miles davis or jimi hendrix listen to the night-song of sea waves crashing in […]
  • Essay on Criticism [But most by numbers], by Alexander Pope (9/22/2012) - But most by Numbers judge a Poet’s song; And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: In the bright Muse tho’ thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, Not for the doctrine […]
  • Essay on Man, Epistle II, by Alexander Pope (3/12/2012) - I. Know, then, thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is man. Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, With too much weakness for the stoic’s pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or […]
  • Etta’s Elegy, by Maureen Seaton (7/5/2015) - for Etta Silver (1913–2013) This is where the poem holds its breath, where the usable truth sways, sorrowing, and the people sway with the truth of it, and this is where the poem enters the dark. This is where the book closes and the clock opens and the clock closes and the book opens to […]
  • Everything That Happens Can Be Called Aging, by Carl Adamshick (4/29/2015) - I have more love than ever. Our kids have kids soon to have kids. I need them. I need everyone to come over to the house, sleep on the floor, on the couches in the front room. I need noise, too many people in too small a space, I need dancing, the spilling of drinks, […]
  • Evolution of Danger, by Tina Chang (7/19/2015) - I’m the one in the back of the bar, drinking cachaça, fingering the lip of the glass. Every dream has left me now as I wait for the next song: Drag and drum. They’ll be no humming in this room, only fragrance of sweat and fuel. To make the animal go. To make it Hungry. […]
  • Fairbanks Under the Solstice, by John Haines (10/15/2015) - Slowly, without sun, the day sinks toward the close of December. It is minus sixty degrees. Over the sleeping houses a dense fog rises—smoke from banked fires, and the snowy breath of an abyss through which the cold town is perceptibly falling. As if Death were a voice made visible, with the power of illumination… […]
  • Fall Parties, by Becca Klaver (10/30/2015) - I cannot wait for fall parties. The invitations have begun to roll in. I used to think I loved summer parties until they got this year so sweaty and sad, the whole world away at the shore, sunk in sweet and salt. Goodbye, summer: you were supposed to save us from spring but everyone just […]
  • Falling, by James Dickey (7/9/2012) - A 29-year-old stewardess fell … to her death tonight when she was swept through an emergency door that suddenly sprang open … The body … was found … three hours after the accident. —New York Times The states when they black out and lie there rolling when they turn To something transcontinental move by drawing […]
  • Far and Away [excerpt], by Fanny Howe (10/7/2015) - The rain falls on. Acres of violets unfold. Dandelion, mayflower Myrtle and forsythia follow. The cardinals call to each other. Echoes of delicate Breath-broken whistles. I know something now About subject, object, verb And about one word that fails For lack of substance. Now people say, He passed on Instead of that. Unit Of space […]
  • Fate, by Carolyn Wells (12/3/2015) - Two shall be born the whole world wide apart, And speak in different tongues, and pay their debts In different kinds of coin; and give no heed Each to the other’s being. And know not That each might suit the other to a T, If they were but correctly introduced. And these, unconsciously, shall bend […]
  • Father Lynch Returns from the Dead, by Jean Valentine (4/3/2015) - There’s one day a year they can return, if they want. He says he won’t again. I ask what it’s like— he quotes St. Paul: “Now hope is sweet.” Then in his own voice. Oh well it’s a great scandal, the naked are easier to kill.
  • Father Outside, by Nick Flynn and Josh Neufeld (7/30/2012) - A black river flows down the center of each page & on either side the banks are wrapped in snow. My father is ink falling in tiny blossoms, a bottle wrapped in a paperbag. I want to believe that if I get the story right we will rise, newly formed, that I will stand over […]
  • February, by James Schuyler (9/5/2015) - A chimney, breathing a little smoke. The sun, I can’t see making a bit of pink I can’t quite see in the blue. The pink of five tulips at five p.m. on the day before March first. The green of the tulip stems and leaves like something I can’t remember, finding a jack-in-the-pulpit a long […]
  • Fellini in Purgatory, by Jean Valentine (11/17/2015) - He was shoveling sand at the edge of the water, his heavy black glasses glittered with rain: “Don’t you see how much like a woman I am?” Shovel, shovel. His throat was wrapped in water, and the water flowered with milt. Shoveler, are you eating the earth? Earth eating you? Teach me what I have […]
  • Figure, by Marjorie Welish (9/17/2012) - The poet redirected my likeness. She said, “Not his decadence, which is a question.” “Time," she said, declining his epidemic. As if serrated, initiatives lost modernity: aura reared up although bracketing pages in comparative matters. “What time is it?” “Perspectivism.” Which is a question. As if serrated, “as if” bracketing pages. And time again, the […]
  • Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour, by Wallace Stevens (11/5/2015) - Light the first light of evening, as in a room In which we rest and, for small reason, think The world imagined is the ultimate good. This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous. It is in that thought that we collect ourselves, Out of all the indifferences, into one thing: Within a single thing, a single […]
  • First Love, by Jan Owen (9/4/2015) - Titian’s Young Englishman with a Glove, circa 1530 It happened in Physics, reading a Library art book under the desk, (the lesson was Archimedes in the bath) I turned a page and fell for an older man, and anonymous at that, hardly ideal – he was four hundred and forty-five, I was fourteen. ‘Eureka!’ streaked […]
  • First Love, by Jennifer Franklin (9/17/2015) - The boy beside me is not you but he is familiar in all the important ways. I pass through life finding you over and over again— oppress you with love. And every surrogate? Afflicted by my kindness, they leave me with my music. I loved you before I ever loved you.
  • First Things to Hand, by Robert Pinsky (4/1/2012) - In the skull kept on the desk. In the spider-pod in the dust. Or nowhere. In milkmaids, in loaves, Or nowhere. And if Socrates leaves His house in the morning, When he returns in the evening He will find Socrates waiting On the doorstep. Buddha the stick You use to clear the path, And Buddha […]
  • Fisherman, by Kurt Brown (7/15/2015) - A man spends his whole life fishing in himself for something grand. It’s like some lost lunker, big enough to break all records. But he’s only heard rumors, myths, vague promises of wonder. He’s only felt the shadow of something enormous darken his life. Or has he? Maybe it’s the shadow of other fish, greater […]
  • Fletcher McGee, by Edgar Lee Masters (8/5/2012) - She took my strength by minutes, She took my life by hours, She drained me like a fevered moon That saps the spinning world. The days went by like shadows, The minutes wheeled like stars. She took the pity from my heart, And made it into smiles. She was a hunk of sculptor’s clay, My […]
  • Flood: Years of Solitude, by Dionisio D. Martínez (9/14/2015) - To the one who sets a second place at the table anyway. To the one at the back of the empty bus. To the ones who name each piece of stained glass projected on a white wall. To anyone convinced that a monologue is a conversation with the past. To the one who loses with […]
  • Flux, by Afaa Michael Weaver (9/1/2015) - I am a city of bones deep inside my marrow, a song in electric chords, decrescendo to mute, rise to white noise, half silences in a blank harmony as all comes to nothing, my eyes the central fire of my soul, yellow, orange, red—gone in an instant and then back when I am, for a […]
  • Flying at Night, by Ted Kooser (5/9/2015) - Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations. Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies like a snowflake falling on water. Below us, some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death, snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn back into the little system of his care. All night, the cities, like shimmering novas, […]

  • Flying, by Sarah Arvio (8/21/2015) - One said to me tonight or was it day or was it the passage between the two, “It’s hard to remember, crossing time zones, the structure of the hours you left behind. Are they sleeping or are they eating sweets, and are they wanting me to phone them now?” “In the face of technological fact, […]
  • Fog, by Carl Sandburg (2/6/2012) - The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on. More by Carl Sandburg: Fog, by Carl Sandburg — The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on. Grass, by Carl Sandburg […]
  • Folly Stamp, by Prageeta Sharma (4/7/2015) - Clatter into the window this late night. We were flabbergasted, tired of the newly-minted drunks and meth-kids with squeals for fists. We live downtown, exposed to the alley. Nothing dangerous, and we were not alarmed. But still, every sound turns us into pins on points, a sleep of figuring out: deeply felt turns: wrestling little […]
  • Footfall, by Julie Maclean (8/28/2015) - I used to live on the chalk where clay gives way to the Roman road en route to an Iron Age fort Laid a bivvy bag off the track squinting into the night bling for meteors and space junk Hiked for days dodging sarn and tor Woke to dew on blade of plantain shoved aside […]
  • For A Traveler, by Jessica Greenbaum (5/28/2015) - I only have a moment so let me tell you the shortest story, about arriving at a long loved place, the house of friends in Maine, their lawn of wildflowers, their grandfather clock and candid portraits, their gabled attic rooms, and woodstove in the kitchen, all accessories of the genuine summer years before, when I […]
  • For Once, Then, Something, by Robert Frost (3/26/2014) - Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs Always wrong to the light, so never seeing Deeper down in the well than where the water Gives me back in a shining surface picture Me myself in the summer heaven godlike Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs. Once, when trying with chin […]
  • For Prince Myshkin, by Daniela Gioseffi (9/21/2015) - When I ride the adventures of my legs through your     heart, or complain of bathroom spiders crawling up my ankles as I wash blood from my thighs, when I call to you from nightmares, want you to be a wave pulling me out to sea, or beg you to assure my voice is etched on […]
  • For Some Slight I Can’t Quite Recall, by Ross Gay (12/24/2015) - Was with the pudgy hands of a thirteen-year-old that I took the marble of his head just barely balanced on his reedy neck and with the brute tutelage of years fighting the neighbor kids and too the lightning of my father’s stiff palm I leaned the boy’s head full force into the rattly pane of […]
  • For the Confederate Dead, by Kevin Young (3/16/2015) - I go with the team also. —Whitman These are the last days my television says. Tornadoes, more rain, overcast, a chance of sun but I do not trust weathermen, never have. In my fridge only the milk makes sense— expires. No one, much less my parents, can tell me why my middle name is Lowell, […]
  • For the Twentieth Century, by Frank Bidart (7/20/2012) - Bound, hungry to pluck again from the thousand technologies of ecstasy boundlessness, the world that at a drop of water rises without boundaries, I push the PLAY button:– . . .Callas, Laurel & Hardy, Szigeti you are alive again,– the slow movement of K.218 once again no longer bland, merely pretty, nearly banal, as it […]
  • For Transtromer, by Norman Dubie (4/14/2015) - In the cold heavy rain, through its poor lens, a woman who might be a man writes with a can of blue paint large numbers on the sides of beached whales— even on the small one who is still living, heaving there next to its darkening mother where the very air is a turnstile… I’m […]
  • For What Binds Us, by Jane Hirshfield (5/28/2015) - There are names for what binds us: strong forces, weak forces. Look around, you can see them: the skin that forms in a half-empty cup, nails rusting into the places they join, joints dovetailed on their own weight. The way things stay so solidly wherever they’ve been set down— and gravity, scientists say, is weak. […]
  • Foreign Wife Elegy, by Yuko Taniguchi (10/23/2015) - My language has its own world where he doesn’t know how to live, but he should learn my language; then he can call my mother to say that I am dead. I drive too fast and someone else drives too fast and we crash on the icy road. The death sweeps me away. He can […]
  • Forever War, by Nate Pritts (9/25/2012) - In studying the anomaly it was determined that holiday decorations look sad out of season, that there’s no excuse for the mistakes of my people. Red paper hearts on the front door into April, a cauldron that doubles as a planter in summer. Always the starscape to help keep me honest, to remind me that […]
  • forgetting something, by Nick Flynn (8/17/2012) - Try this—close / your eyes. No, wait, when—if—we see each other / again the first thing we should do is close our eyes—no, / first we should tie our hands to something / solid—bedpost, doorknob— otherwise they (wild birds) / might startle us / awake. Are we forgetting something? What about that / warehouse, the […]
  • Forty-Seven Minutes, by Nick Flynn (11/15/2015) - Years later I’m standing before a roomful of young writers in a high school in Texas. I’ve asked them to locate an image in a poem we’d just read—their heads at this moment are bowed to the page. After some back & forth about the grass & a styrofoam cup, a girl raises her hand […]
  • Four Glimpses of Night, by Frank Marshall Davis (9/20/2015) - I Eagerly Like a woman hurrying to her lover Night comes to the room of the world And lies, yielding and content Against the cool round face Of the moon. II Night is a curious child, wandering Between earth and sky, creeping In windows and doors, daubing The entire neighborhood With purple paint. Day Is […]
  • Four Poems for Robin, by Gary Snyder (3/17/2015) - Four Poems for Robin, by Gary Snyder Siwashing It Out Once in Suislaw Forest by Gary Snyder I slept under rhododendron All night blossoms fell Shivering on a sheet of cardboard Feet stuck in my pack Hands deep in my pockets Barely able to sleep. I remembered when we were in school Sleeping together in […]
  • Four Preludes on Playthings of the Wind, by Carl Sandburg (8/19/2012) - The past is a bucket of ashes. 1 The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time and does her hair the way she wants it and fastens at last the last braid and coil and puts the hairpin where it belongs and turns and drawls: Well, what of […]
  • Fourth of July, 2012, by Robyn Schiff (7/4/2015) - I remember a performance of Antigone in which she threw herself on the floor of the universe and picked up a piece of dust. Is that the particle? It startled me. Was it Scripted? Directed? Driven? I am a girl, Antigone. I have a sister. We love each other terribly. I am a woman of […]
  • Francesca, by Ezra Pound (6/11/2015) - You came in out of the night And there were flowers in your hands, Now you will come out of a confusion of people, Out of a turmoil of speech about you. I who have seen you amid the primal things Was angry when they spoke your name In ordinary places. I would that the […]
  • Francesco and Clare, by David St. John (9/27/2012) - It was there, in that little town On top of the mountain, they walked, Francesco and Chiara, That’s who they were, that’s what They told themselves–a joke, their joke About two saints, failed lovers held apart From the world of flesh, Francis and Clare, Out walking the old city, two saints, Sainted ones, holy, held […]
  • French Movie, by David Lehman (4/25/2015) - I was in a French movie and had only nine hours to live and I knew it not because I planned to take my life or swallowed a lethal but slow-working potion meant for a juror in a mob-related murder trial, nor did I expect to be assassinated like a chemical engineer mistaken for someone […]
  • from &: A Serial Poem, by Daryl Hine (12/11/2015) - Such pejorative deformities of sound Without meaningful speech or musical equipoise, Annoyances none but hoi polloi enjoys, Through our winding whispering galleries resound Unwelcome, & like a tedious siege surround Us with that ubiquitous nuisance, noise, Which may take the shape of inflated reputation, Able neither to stun, astonish nor astound Those whom obscene publicity annoys, Who prefer the […]
  • from Blue Dark, by Deborah Landau (3/20/2012) - the moon might rise and it might not and if it brings a ghost light we will read beneath it and if it returns to earth we will listen for its phrases and if I’m alone at the bedside table I will have a ghost book to refer to and when I lie back I’ll […]
  • from Fairies, by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge (3/4/2014) - 2 Fairies begin their day by coming together a moment and sharing joy. They love the feeling, which dew on the leaves draws from grass, lilacs and the response of meadow and flowers to the dawn. Diminutive green sylphs now run in the grass, whose growth seems intimately associated with theirs, a single line of […]
  • From Honey to Ashes, by Geoffrey G. O’Brien (8/15/2012) - What follows is terms and classifications, the West Of speech congratulating itself within A system so complex there’s no way not to be Effective. Just as they had planned the streets On either side are lined with all that’s needed, Storefronts whose glass returns a look Filled with the contents it displays (Mannequins, organics, mobile […]
  • from Mesongs, by Kamau Brathwaite (6/22/2015) - XXIV for Barbara at Devizes And suddenly you was talking trees fall black with birds behind the hill and green as grass fly off into the sun o blinding girl the whole cathedral crash at your back XXV Not the blue the orthodoxy of the day But a blue like intuition The soft of the […]
  • from People Close To You, by Crystal Williams (7/27/2012) - I. She asks if she can sit on the bench & it is that kind of day in Santa Monica, slow & gentle so that when she sits, properly, like a teacher or the pudgy mother of a girl named Marilyn, in unison you raise your round faces. The wind hefts the voices of your […]
  • from Projection, by Lidija Dimkovska (10/28/2015) - But I know that you know how your palms itch when you’re alone, when the electricity goes off, and the silence whirls in your stomach. I know that you know how hard it is to dress in white after wearing black, to have your arms not merge into the day but be signs by the […]
  • From the Lives of My Friends, by Michael Dickman (4/19/2012) - What are the birds called in that neighborhood The dogs There were dogs flying from branch to branch My friends and I climbed up the telephone poles to sit on the power lines dressed like crows Their voices sounded like lemons They were a smooth sheet They grew black feathers Not frightening at all but […]
  • From the Long Sad Party, by Mark Strand (7/6/2015) - Someone was saying something about shadows covering the field, about how things pass, how one sleeps towards morning and the morning goes. Someone was saying how the wind dies down but comes back, how shells are the coffins of wind but the weather continues. It was a long night and someone said something about the […]
  • from The Princess [Sweet and low, sweet and low], by Lord Alfred Tennyson (10/3/2015) - Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will […]
  • From you have I been absent in the spring… (Sonnet 98), by William Shakespeare (4/23/2012) - From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him, Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odor and in hue, Could make me any […]
  • Furthermore, by Christina Davis (7/13/2015) - It was something to let him go. It was a having to believe, furthermore, in the voyage of the other, a Ulysses without an Ithaca, was to speak of the sea without speech of the shore— and to have for a body the going away of the body, to have for eyes the going away […]
  • Gapped Sonnet, by Suzanne Gardinier (4/26/2015) - Between the blinds Past the coded locks Past the slanted gold bars of the day Smelling of all-night salt rain on the docks Of grief Of birth Of bergamot Of May In the wind that lifts the harbor litter Wet against my fingers in a dream Salvaging among the tideline’s bitter gleanings Generous Exigent Lush […]
  • Garden of Bees, by Matthew Rohrer (9/26/2012) - The narcissus grows past the towers. Eight gypsy sisters spread their wings in the garden. Their gold teeth are unnerving. Every single baby is asleep. They want a little money and I give them less. I’m charming and handsome. They take my pen. I buy the poem from the garden of bees for one euro. […]
  • Garden Poem, by Robert Adamson (10/31/2015) - for Juno Sunlight scatters wild bees across a blanket of flowering lavender. The garden grows, visibly, in one morning— native grasses push up, tough and lovely as your angel’s trumpets. At midday the weather, with bushfire breath, walks about talking to itself. A paper wasp zooms above smooth river pebbles. In the trees possums lie […]
  • Gaslight, by Tom Raworth (11/4/2015) - a line of faces borders the strangler’s work heavy european women mist blows over dusty tropical plants lit from beneath the leaves by a spotlight mist in my mind a riffled deck of cards or eccentrics was i a waterton animal my head is not my own poetry is neither swan nor owl but worker, […]
  • Georgette, by Erín Moure (8/6/2015) - Dignified is a heartsong here Harsh traverse of the unknown “Better to go down dignified” Ekes out constant What gives in us, or won’t give (her smile seen once in the Red Café) Turns sparkless Into sparklers One “s” less One “r” more, Georgette — — — — — The new wall we built that […]
  • Get Used To It, by Margaret Young (6/29/2012) - Wake up, even Monday the cup’s still full, lettuce rosette-ing up between sandstone scraps by back steps where ladybugs swarm in to die or lay eggs, some say, death-march or birth-march looking about the same. The rust of barn-sides: different chemical effect than rust of oak-copse, burning with late fervor beyond reaped cornfields.
  • Getting Close, by Victoria Redel (6/29/2015) - Because my mother loved pocketbooks I come alive at the opening click or close of a metal clasp. And sometimes, unexpectedly, a faux crocodile handle makes me weep. Breathy clearing of throat, a smooth arm, heels on pavement, she lingers, sound tattoos. I go to the thrift store to feel for bobby pins caught in […]
  • Ghost House, by Robert Frost (11/20/2015) - I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field; The orchard tree has grown […]
  • Ghost in the Land of Skeletons, by Christopher Kennedy (10/13/2015) - If not for flesh’s pretty paint, we’re just a bunch of skeletons, working hard to deny the fact of bones. Teeth remind me that we die. That’s why I never smile, except when looking at a picture of a ghost, captured by a camera lens, in a book about the paranormal. When someone takes a […]
  • Ghost Notes [excerpt], by Ralph Burns (7/7/2012) - for Danny Fletcher   I. Call and Response 1 Plumbline of disaster, shadow storage of the way thought travels, the opinion, the sentiment, only assertion following silence, only a way of everlasting breathing, a verb searching for grammar too devoted to making sense so that the self interrupts with a final pitch. From stop to […]
  • Ghost Story, by Matthew Dickman (9/3/2015) - for matthew z and matthew r I remember telling the joke about child molestation and seeing the face of the young man I didn’t know well enough turn from something with light inside of it into something like an animal that’s had its brain bashed in, something like that, some sky inside him breaking all […]
  • Ghostology, by Rebecca Lindenberg (6/15/2015) - The whistler’s inhale, the white space between is and not or after a question, a pause. Nothing isn’t song: a leaf hatching from its green shell, frost whorling across a windshield, an open door opening
  • Given, by Joanna Klink (6/23/2015) - And I carried to that emptiness between us the birds that had been calling out all night. I carried an old bicycle, a warm meal, some time to talk. I would have brought them to you sooner but was afraid your own hopelessness would keep you crouched there. If you spring up, let it not […]
  • Glut, by Gerald Stern (11/28/2015) - The whole point was getting rid of glut for which I starved myself and lived with the heat down and only shaved oh every five days and used a blunt razor for months so that my cheek was not only red but the hair was bent not cut for which I then would be ready […]
  • Gobbo Remembers His Youth, by David Cappella (10/15/2015) - Let me tell you about suffering because I was a boy cold without love in a large house, so dark it stifled laughs. I would run to my mother with stones only to drop them under a grim gaze so harsh I felt tossed in a freezing bath. Her words, like a cicada’s shrill chirp, […]

  • God the Broken Lock, by David Rivard (6/16/2015) - I’ve died enough by now I trust just what’s imperfect or ruined. I mean God, God who is in the stop sign asking to be shotgunned, the ocean that evaporates even as we float. God the bent nail & broken lock, and God the hangnail. The hangnail. And a million others might be like me, […]
  • Goddess of Maple at Evening, by Chard deNiord (10/21/2015) - She breathed a chill that slowed the sap inside the phloem, stood perfectly still inside the dark, then walked to a field where the distance crooned in a small blue voice how close it is, how the gravity of sky pulls you up like steam from the arch. She sang along until the silence soloed […]
  • Going There, by Jack Gilbert (11/14/2015) - Of course it was a disaster. The unbearable, dearest secret has always been a disaster. The danger when we try to leave. Going over and over afterward what we should have done instead of what we did. But for those short times we seemed to be alive. Misled, misused, lied to and cheated, certainly. Still, […]
  • Gradeschool’s Large Windows, by Thomas Lux (6/27/2015) - weren’t built to let the sunlight in. They were large to let the germs out. When polio, which sounds like the first dactyl of a jump rope song, was on the rage, you did not swim in public waters. The awful thing was an iron lung. We lined up in our underwear to get the […]
  • Grass, by Carl Sandburg (6/15/2012) - Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work— I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: What place is […]
  • Gray, by Rose Terry Cooke (10/25/2015) - In the dead calm of night, when the stars are all shining, The deep, silent shadows lie cold o’er my head, And the wind, like a sad spirit, round the house pining, Calls up from their quiet the tones of the dead. Almost I can see them who rustle the curtain, And flit past my […]
  • Great Sleeps I Have Known, by Robin Becker (12/15/2015) - Once in a cradle in Norway folded like Odin’s eight-legged horse Sleipnir as a ship in full sail transported the dead to Valhalla Once on a mountain in Taos after making love in my thirties the decade of turquoise and silver After your brother walked into the Atlantic to scatter your mothers ashes his khakis […]
  • Grief Puppet, by Sandra Beasley (12/9/2015) - In the nearby plaza, musicians would often gather. The eternal flame was fueled by propane tank. An old man sold chive dumplings from a rolling cart, while another grilled skewers of paprika beef. Male turtledoves would puff their breasts, woo-ing, and for a few coins, we each bought an hour with the grief puppet. It […]
  • Hackett Avenue, by John Koethe (8/23/2012) - I used to like connections: Leaves floating on the water Like faces floating on the surface of a dream, On the surface of a swimming pool Once the holocaust was complete. And then I passed through stages of belief And unbelief, desire and restraint. I found myself repeating certain themes Ad interim, until they began […]
  • Haiku Journey, by Kimberly Blaeser (11/13/2015) - i. Spring the tips of each pine the spikes of telephone poles hold gathering crows may's errant mustard spreads wild across paved road look both ways roadside treble cleft feeding gopher, paws to mouth cheeks puffed with music yesterday's spring wind ruffling the grey tips of fur rabbit dandelion ii. Summer turkey vulture feeds mechanical […]
  • Hands, by Siv Cedering (3/8/2012) - I When I fall asleep my hands leave me. They pick up pens and draw creatures with five feathers on each wing. The creatures multiply. They say: "We are large like your father's hands." They say: "We have your mother's knuckles." I speak to them: "If you are hands, why don't you touch?" And the […]
  • Haunted Houses, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (2/20/2012) - All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the door-way, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of […]
  • Haunted Seas, by Cale Young Rice (2/19/2012) - A gleaming glassy ocean Under a sky of grey; A tide that dreams of motion, Or moves, as the dead may; A bird that dips and wavers Over lone waters round, Then with a cry that quavers Is gone—a spectral sound. The brown sad sea-weed drifting Far from the land, and lost; The faint warm […]
  • Headaches, by Marilyn Hacker (3/5/2015) - Wine again. The downside of any evening’s bright exchanges, scribbled with retribution : stark awake, a tic throbs in the left temple’s site of bombardment. Tortured syntax, thorned thoughts, vocabulary like a forest littered with unexploded cluster bombs, no exit except explosion ripping the branches. Stacks of shadowed books on the bedside table wall a […]
  • Health, by Rafael Campo (12/18/2015) - While jogging on the treadmill at the gym, that exercise in getting nowhere fast, I realized we need a health pandemic. Obesity writ large no more, Alzheimer’s forgotten, we could live carefree again. We’d chant the painted shaman’s sweaty oaths, We’d kiss the awful relics of the saints, we’d sip the bitter tea from twisted […]
  • Her Body Like a Lantern Next to Me, by John Rybicki (6/19/2015) - There’s this movie I am watching: my love’s belly almost five months pregnant with cancer, more like a little rock wall piled and fitted inside her than some prenatal rounding. Over there’s her face near the frying pan she’s bent over, but there’s no water in the pan, and so, no reflection. No pool where […]
  • Her Father, by Thomas Hardy (8/23/2015) - I met her, as we had privily planned, Where passing feet beat busily: She whispered: “Father is at hand! He wished to walk with me.” His presence as he joined us there Banished our words of warmth away; We felt, with cloudings of despair, What Love must lose that day. Her crimson lips remained unkissed, […]
  • Her Name was Name, by Matt Hart (3/31/2014) - I had a girl, I named her soap. I had a soap, I named her cat. One day I played the accordion on paper, and it sounded like a birth certificate drifting into the sun, a disintegration station in a vast bewildered wilderness— which sounds like a slide whistle at first but later like the […]
  • Here and Now, by Stephen Dunn (6/18/2012) - for Barbara There are words I’ve had to save myself from, like My Lord and Blessed Mother, words I said and never meant, though I admit a part of me misses the ornamental stateliness of High Mass, that smell of incense. Heaven did exist, I discovered, but was reciprocal and momentary, like lust felt at […]
  • Hey Allen Ginsberg Where Have You Gone and What Would You Think of My Drugs?, by Rachel Zucker (3/30/2014) - A mouse went to see his mother.  When his car broke down he bought a bike. When the bike wore out he bought skates.  When the skates wore down he ran. He ran until his sneakers wore through.  Then he walked.  He walked and walked, almost walked his feet through so he bought new ones. […]
  • High Tide at Race Point, by Charles Bernstein (4/3/2014) - for Norman Fischer A commercial with no pitch. A beach without sand. A lover without a love. A surface without an exterior. A touch without a hand. A protest without a cause. A well without a bottom. A sting without a bite. A scream without a mouth. A fist without a fight. A day without […]
  • High Yellow, by Hannah Lowe (8/26/2015) - Errol drives me to Treasure Beach It’s an old story, the terrible storm swerving the dark country roads the ship going down, half the sailors I think about what you will be, your mix drowned, half swimming the white, black, Chinese, and your father’s slate waves, spat hard onto shore Scottish-Englishness. We cross the Black River Smashed crates, bodies where […]
  • Homage to Sharon Stone, by Lynn Emanuel (4/22/2015) - It’s early morning. This is the “before,” the world hanging around in its wrapper, blowzy, frumpy, doing nothing: my neighbors, hitching themselves to the roles of the unhappily married, trundle their three mastiffs down the street. I am writing this book of poems. My name is Lynn Emanuel. I am wearing a bathrobe and curlers; […]
  • Horoscope, by Maureen N. McLane (11/9/2015) - Again the white blanket icicles pierce. The fierce teeth of steel-framed snowshoes bite the trail open. Where the hardwoods stand and rarely bend the wind blows hard an explosion of snow like flour dusting the baker in a shop long since shuttered. In this our post-shame century we will reclaim the old nouns unembarrassed. If […]
  • Horse Latitudes, by Jo Sarzotti (10/8/2015) - The past lies in the brine Of equatorial water, Parchment-folded, Black ink veining where the quill paused. Rich doldrums Full of gold Where Spanish sailors Threw the Queen’s horses, Palomino, the color of her hair. On the Outer Banks Each wave a breaking Promise of the New World, Lost colonies, Lost ships, wild ponies Swimming […]
  • house of strays, by Kristy Bowen (8/3/2015) - Suddenly, a hole opens in the year and we slip into it, the riptide pull of strange, lonely dogs and broken phone lines. You forgive me if I mistake hunted for haunted, but I do like to rearrange things in my body every few years. Take a can of gasoline to the frayed and ghosted. […]
  • Hovering at a Low Altitude, by Dahlia Ravikovitch (10/29/2015) - (translated by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld) I am not here. I am on those craggy eastern hills streaked with ice where grass doesn’t grow and a sweeping shadow overruns the slope. A little shepherd girl with a herd of goats, black goats, emerges suddenly from an unseen tent. She won’t live out the day, […]
  • How Beautiful, by Mary Jo Bang (4/30/2015) - A personal lens: glass bending rays That gave one that day’s news Saying each and every day, Just remember you are standing On a planet that’s evolving. How beautiful, she thought, what distance does For water, the view from above or afar. In last night’s dream, they were back again At the beginning. She was […]
  • How Do I Know When a Poem Is Finished?, by Naomi Shihab Nye (5/29/2015) - When you quietly close the door to a room the room is not finished. It is resting. Temporarily. Glad to be without you for a while. Now it has time to gather its balls of gray dust, to pitch them from corner to corner. Now it seeps back into itself, unruffled and proud. Outlines grow […]
  • How I Am, by Jason Shinder (4/17/2012) - When I talk to my friends I pretend I am standing on the wings of a flying plane. I cannot be trusted to tell them how I am. Or if I am falling to earth weighing less than a dozen roses. Sometimes I dream they have broken up with their lovers and are carrying food […]
  • How I Discovered Poetry, by Marilyn Nelson (9/9/2015) - It was like soul-kissing, the way the words filled my mouth as Mrs. Purdy read from her desk. All the other kids zoned an hour ahead to 3:15, but Mrs. Purdy and I wandered lonely as clouds borne by a breeze off Mount Parnassus. She must have seen the darkest eyes in the room brim: […]
  • Howl, Parts I & II & III, by Allen Ginsberg (8/6/2012) - For Carl Solomon I I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and […]
  • Hum, by Ann Lauterbach (9/12/2012) - The days are beautiful The days are beautiful. I know what days are. The other is weather. I know what weather is. The days are beautiful. Things are incidental. Someone is weeping. I weep for the incidental. The days are beautiful. Where is tomorrow? Everyone will weep. Tomorrow was yesterday. The days are beautiful. Tomorrow […]
  • Humanimal [I want to make a dark mirror out of writing], by Bhanu Kapil (5/30/2015) - 47. I want to make a dark mirror out of writing: one child facing the other, like Dora and little Hans. I want to write, for example, about the violence done to my father’s body as a child. In this re-telling, India is blue, green, black and yellow like the actual, reflective surface of a […]
  • Humanimal [Feral children are fatty], by Bhanu Kapil (5/31/2015) - 4. Feral children are fatty, complex and rigid. When you captured the two children, you had to brush the knots out of their hair then scrape the comb free of hard butter. Descent and serration. No. I don’t want to ask primal questions. 5. Kamala slips over the garden wall with her sister and runs, […]
  • Hunger Moon, by Jane Cooper (10/2/2015) - The last full moon of February stalks the fields; barbed wire casts a shadow. Rising slowly, a beam moved toward the west stealthily changing position until now, in the small hours, across the snow it advances on my pillow to wake me, not rudely like the sun but with the cocked gun of silence. I […]
  • I am the People, the Mob, by Carl Sandburg (7/26/2012) - I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me? I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then […]
  • i am witness to the threshing of the grain, by John Hoffman (2/9/2012) - i am witness to the threshing of the grain the man of corn hanging from a dry oak bough bade us to be silent in our flailing he bade us the understanding that pervades the silence that is veiled his whisper is no louder than the locust bade us no louder whrr chk chk whrr […]
  • I Didn’t Apologize to the Well, by Mahmoud Darwish (8/12/2012) - I didn’t apologize to the well when I passed the well, I borrowed from the ancient pine tree a cloud and squeezed it like an orange, then waited for a gazelle white and legendary. And I ordered my heart to be patient: Be neutral as if you were not of me! Right here the kind […]
  • I Found a 1950s “Answer and Color-in Book”, by Jennifer Barber (4/29/2015) - One day the children played in the kitchen. in the cellar. in the yard. The yard looked like a meadow. a forest. an island in the sea. The children forgot their mud cakes, swing set, sticks, when a girl taught them cat’s cradles. clay people. folded paper boats. Late afternoon, whispering, they lay in a […]
  • I Hear America Singing, by Walt Whitman (7/4/2012) - I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him […]
  • I Pack Her Suitcase with Sticks, Light the Tinder, and Shut the Lid, by Rob Schlegel (6/17/2015) - She used to sit on the forest floor and I would cut her hair until it piled up onto the ground, like ash. Tonight, her name is a leaf covering my left eye. The right I close for the wind to stitch shut with thread from the dress she wore into the grave where the […]
  • I saw a man pursuing the horizon, by Stephen Crane (5/6/2015) - I saw a man pursuing the horizon; Round and round they sped. I was disturbed at this; I accosted the man. “It is futile,” I said, “You can never—” “You lie,” he cried, And ran on.
  • I Saw the Devil with His Needlework, by Bianca Stone (9/23/2015) - The air was like a bullet made out of silk I saw him at the curb on old upholstery saw him with his counted-thread-point and tent-stitch, bent over an embroidery hoop the trees lifted their drunk limbs and leaves while the evening looked through a succession of windows into other people’s rooms the evening was […]
  • I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark, Not Day, by Gerard Manley Hopkins (9/19/2015) - I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light’s delay. With witness I speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament […]
  • I Would Like to Describe, by Zbigniew Herbert (3/26/2015) - I would like to describe the simplest emotion joy or sadness but not as others do reaching for shafts of rain or sun I would like to describe a light which is being born in me but I know it does not resemble any star for it is not so bright not so pure and […]
  • I’m Over the Moon, by Brenda Shaughnessy (6/21/2012) - I don’t like what the moon is supposed to do. Confuse me, ovulate me, spoon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient date-rape drug. So I’ll howl at you, moon, I’m angry. I’ll take back the night. Using me to swoon at your questionable light, you had me chasing you, the world’s worst lover, over and […]
  • I, Too, Sing America, by Langston Hughes (3/6/2012) - I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong. Tomorrow, I'll be at the table When company comes. Nobody'll dare Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen," Then. Besides, They'll see how beautiful I am […]
  • Identity Crisis, by F. D. Reeve (4/15/2012) - He was urged to prepare for success: “You never can tell, he was told over and over; “others have made it; one dare not presume to predict. You never can tell. Who’s Who in America lists the order of cats in hunting, fishing, bird-watching, farming, domestic service–the dictionary order of cats who have made it. […]
  • If It All Went Up in Smoke, by George Oppen (2/1/2012) - that smoke would remain the forever savage country poem’s light borrowed light of the landscape and one’s footprints praise from distance in the close crowd all that is strange the sources the wells the poem begins neither in word nor meaning but the small selves haunting us in the stones and is less always than […]

  • If My Voice Is Not Reaching You, by Afzal Ahmed Syed (5/6/2012) - If my voice is not reaching you add to it the echo— echo of ancient epics And to that— a princess And to the princess—your beauty And to your beauty— a lover’s heart And in the lover’s heart a dagger
  • If There Is Something to Desire, 9, 17, 18, by Vera Pavlova (8/7/2015) - 9 I broke your heart. Now barefoot I tread on shards. 17 Why is the word yes so brief? It should be the longest, the hardest, so that you could not decide in an instant to say it, so that upon reflection you could stop in the middle of saying it. 18 —Sing me The […]
  • If We Must Die, by Claude McKay (3/9/2015) - If we must die—let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot. If we must die—oh, let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters […]
  • If You Forget Me, by Pablo Neruda (5/1/2015) - I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that […]
  • If You Go into the Woods You Will Find It Has a Technology, by Heather Christle (3/7/2014) - This tree has a small LED display It is glowing and it can show you words and it can show you pictures and it can melt from one choice to another and you are looking at it and it wants you to share the message but it can't see that you are the only one […]
  • Images, by Richard Aldington (8/28/2012) - I Like a gondola of green scented fruits Drifting along the dank canals of Venice, You, O exquisite one, Have entered into my desolate city. II The blue smoke leaps Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing. So my love leaps forth toward you, Vanishes and is renewed. III A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky […]
  • Imperatives, by Marilyn Buck (6/6/2012) - Bring me out mine the wild abandon that was mine once when I was seventeen a young wraith in black bells ringing in flight wrapped around a young man’s back on a BMW that wound up mountains to a naked lunch on ice-planted crags pounded by the Pacific once when I was thirty entrancing from […]
  • Improvisations On A Sentence By Poe, by Jack Spicer (3/1/2012) - “Indefiniteness is an element of the true music.” The grand concord of what Does not stoop to definition. The seagull Alone on the pier cawing its head off Over no fish, no other seagull, No ocean. As absolutely devoid of meaning As a French horn. It is not even an orchestra. Concord Alone on a […]
  • In Betweenness, by Pierre Joris (3/16/2014) - is it a good thing to find two empty pages between the day before yesterday & yesterday when trying to make room for the blue opera afternoon of today a sunday like any sunday in may? there is no one could tell or judge though my own obsession with the in between should dictate the […]
  • In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae (9/11/2012) - In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead; short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In […]
  • In General, by Pattiann Rogers (7/21/2015) - This is about no rain in particular, just any rain, rain sounding on the roof, any roof, slate or wood, tin or clay or thatch, any rain among any trees, rain in soft, soundless accumulation, gathering rather than falling on the fir of juniper and cedar, on a lace-community of cobwebs, rain clicking off the […]
  • In Memory of W. B. Yeats, by W. H. Auden (3/2/2012) - I He disappeared in the dead of winter: The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, And snow disfigured the public statues; The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day. Far from his illness The wolves ran on […]
  • In Portraits in Seasons, by Danielle Pafunda (6/10/2015) - As a feral thing would. As a dead leaf whose crunch she herself hears, whose buggy interior floods the sidewalk. Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same. Where you’ve tucked your pen into your notes, I tuck my fingernail, burned and cursed and shut tight my eyes. I tuck my feet up like […]
  • In Praise Of The Passivity Of Paper, by Sam Riviere (5/26/2015) - I felt suddenly convinced that I had feelings for the wallpaper. I was especially captivated by its blonde hair and bad dreams. I had the impression the wallpaper needed longer to properly respond. By the time I left, my affections had produced this abrasion on my cheek. People looked on the abrasion as unquestionable proof […]
  • In Praise of Their Divorce, by Tony Hoagland (4/15/2015) - And when I heard about the divorce of my friends, I couldn’t help but be proud of them, that man and that woman setting off in different directions, like pilgrims in a proverb —him to buy his very own toaster oven, her seeking a prescription for sleeping pills. Let us keep in mind the hidden […]
  • In Search of an Umbrella in NYC, by Juan Felipe Herrera (9/13/2015) - You were having a stroke – i did not grasp what was going on you standing almost half ways up half ways down the colors what were they i was frozen both us us staring woman with parasol behind me are you drunk she said facing you and the deli behind you you leaned shivered […]
  • In the great snowfall before the bomb, by Lorine Niedecker (6/26/2015) - In the great snowfall before the bomb colored yule tree lights windows, the only glow for contemplation along this road I worked the print shop right down among em the folk from whom all poetry flows and dreadfully much else. I was Blondie I carried my bundles of hog feeder price lists down by Larry […]
  • In the Land of Words, by Eloise Greenfield (10/9/2015) - In the land of words, I stand as still as a tree, and let the words rain down on me. Come, rain, bring your knowledge and your music. Sing while I grow green and full. I’ll stand as still as a tree, and let your blessings fall on me.
  • In The Museum Of Lost Objects, by Rebecca Lindenberg (12/5/2015) - You’ll find labels describing what is gone: an empress’s bones, a stolen painting of a man in a feathered helmet holding a flag-draped spear. A vellum gospel, hidden somewhere long ago forgotten, would have sat on that pedestal; this glass cabinet could have kept the first salts carried back from the Levant. To help us […]
  • in the ruins, by Mark Conway (12/13/2015) - we drank in the remains of ruined buildings and we sat in a cave or wrecked houses on farms given back to the bank listening to men who’d been raised in ways that were lost and we strained to make out the use of their news they were crazy or passed out speed notched with […]
  • In the Surgical Theatre, by Dana Levin (5/18/2015) - In the moment between the old heart and the new two angels gather at the empty chest. The doctors flow over them as winds, as blurs, unnoticed but as currents around this body, the flesh of the chest peeled back as petals, revealing a hole. In it the layers are fluttering—the back muscle, the bone, […]
  • In the Waiting Room, by Elizabeth Bishop (5/11/2015) - In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist’s appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist’s waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time […]
  • Inheritance, by Daniel Johnson (10/20/2015) - We drank hard water. Spoke in plain language. Said what we didn’t with a joke or a look. One went missing— let silence drill its hole. A second fell ill. We cloaked our mirrors. Slashed a red X on the door to our house. Pass over us, I asked the raven sky, or burn in […]
  • Inland, by Chase Twichell (5/26/2015) - Above the blond prairies, the sky is all color and water. The future moves from one part to another. This is a note in a tender sequence that I call love, trying to include you, but it is not love. It is music, or time. To explain the pleasure I take in loneliness, I speak […]
  • Inside Out, by Diane Wakoski (10/30/2015) - I walk the purple carpet into your eye carrying the silver butter server but a truck rumbles by, leaving its black tire prints on my foot and old images the sound of banging screen doors on hot afternoons and a fly buzzing over the Kool-Aid spilled on the sink flicker, as reflections on the metal […]
  • Insomnia, by Alicia Suskin Ostriker (8/11/2015) - But it’s really fear you want to talk about and cannot find the words so you jeer at yourself you call yourself a coward you wake at 2 a.m. thinking failure, fool, unable to sleep, unable to sleep buzzing away on your mattress with two pillows and a quilt, they call them comforters, which implies […]
  • Inspire Hope, by Amy Lawless (11/28/2015) - I am in a common despair. So in order for me to have hope, it is crucial to stack fifty pounds of books on the left-hand side of my bed. I cover him tightly with my warmest woolen blankets. This boyfriend is named Shiver. He is best left alone to his thoughts. But one night, […]
  • Into Bad Weather Bounding, by Bin Ramke (8/10/2015) - (After Wallace Stevens’ “Of The Surface Of Things”) Colligated points, dust, ultimately a cloud, as in an orographic cloud in Colorado cringing against a horizon. Boundaried vision and vapor conspire to exhale, exalt into rain random dispersal into the present: I see as far as that. I never saw farther. In sinking air, mammatus cloud […]
  • Inventing Father In Las Vegas, by Lynn Emanuel (8/9/2015) - If I could see nothing but the smoke From the tip of his cigar, I would know everything About the years before the war. If his face were halved by shadow I would know This was a street where an EATS sign trembled And a Greek served coffee black as a dog’s eye. If I […]
  • Invictus, by William Ernest Henley (8/24/2015) - Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and […]
  • Iris, by David St. John (3/10/2015) - Vivian St. John (1881-1974) There is a train inside this iris: You think I’m crazy, & like to say boyish & outrageous things. No, there is A train inside this iris. It’s a child’s finger bearded in black banners. A single window like a child’s nail, A darkened porthole lit by the white, angular face […]
  • It sifts from Leaden Sieves – (311), by Emily Dickinson (7/17/2012) - It sifts from Leaden Sieves – It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road – It makes an Even Face Of Mountain, and of Plain – Unbroken Forehead from the East Unto the East again – It reaches to the Fence – It wraps it Rail by Rail […]
  • It Was Raining In Delft, by Peter Gizzi (5/27/2012) - A cornerstone. Marble pilings. Curbstones and brick. I saw rooftops. The sun after a rain shower. Liz, there are children in clumsy jackets. Cobblestones and the sun now in a curbside pool. I will call in an hour where you are sleeping. I’ve been walking for 7 hrs on yr name day. Dead, I am […]
  • Iva’s Pantoum, by Marilyn Hacker (3/14/2015) - We pace each other for a long time. I packed my anger with the beef jerky. You are the baby on the mountain. I am in a cold stream where I led you. I packed my anger with the beef jerky. You are the woman sticking her tongue out in a cold stream where I […]
  • Jack And Jill, by Mother Goose (9/1/2015) - Jack and Jill went up the hill To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after. Up Jack got, and home did trot, As fast as he could caper, To old Dame Dob, who patched his nob With vinegar and brown paper.
  • Jacksonville, Vermont, by Jason Shinder (10/19/2015) - Because I am not married, I have the skin of an orange that has spent its life in the dark. Inside the orange I am blind. I cannot tell when a hand reaches in and breaks the atoms of the blood. Sometimes a blackbird will bring the wind into my hair. Or the yellow clouds […]
  • Jane, by Howard Moss (8/29/2015) - The startling pleasures all broke down, It was her first arthritic spring. Inside her furs, her bones, secure, Suddenly became a source of pain And froze on a Saturday afternoon While she was listening to “La Boheme.” Strength had been her weakness, and Because it was, she got to like The exhilaration of catastrophes That […]
  • Jazz Lady of the Subway, by Daniela Gioseffi (8/15/2015) - She sings her heart out with a smile like Louis Armstrong on the subway’s dusty platform with her band, a bass, guitar, horn player, and drummer. She keeps singing with a smile even as an old demented man dances up and down, keeping rhythm in front of her, blocking the audience view, with his big […]
  • Jet, by Tony Hoagland (6/12/2015) - Sometimes I wish I were still out on the back porch, drinking jet fuel with the boys, getting louder and louder as the empty cans drop out of our paws like booster rockets falling back to Earth and we soar up into the summer stars. Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead, bearing asteroids and […]
  • Joyride, by Ana Bozicevic (9/25/2015) - Skinny dirt road In the middle of the ocean. That led to the house of art. I took it. The engine nearly Drowned. I lied that it was fun That I’d do it again. When I got to That shore The house was gone and when I looked back, so was the path. Now I’m […]
  • Just Listen, by Peter Johnson (12/25/2015) - I sit by the window and watch a great mythological bird go down in flames. In fact, it’s a kite the neighborhood troublemaker has set on fire. Twenty-one and still living at home, deciding when to cut through a screen and chop us into little pieces. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” his mother would say, […]
  • Kaddish, Part I, by Allen Ginsberg (3/18/2015) - For Naomi Ginsberg, 1894-1956 Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the […]
  • Kargil, by Sudeep Sen (9/6/2015) - Ten years on, I came searching for                                war signs of the pastexpecting remnants — magazine debris,unexploded shells,                  shrapnel                                   that mark bomb wounds. I came looking for                                                                  ghosts —people past, skeletons charred,abandoned                  brick-wood-cement                                                  that once housed them. I could only find whispers —                                   whispers among the clamourof a small town outpost                                                  in full throttle —everyday chores                                   sketching outward […]
  • King County Metro, by Geffrey Davis (10/10/2015) - In Seattle, in 1982, my mother beholds this man boarding the bus, the one she’s already turning into my father. His style (if you can call it that): disarming disregard—a loud Hawaiian-print shirt and knee-high tube socks that reach up the deep tone of his legs, toward the dizzying orange of running shorts. Outside, the […]
  • King Lear, by Lisa Sewell (10/28/2015) - For the father who wakes and wakes himself, eyes full of himself and for the one, who when the sun descends slips into the stormy smite flat the rotundity o’ the world. Done in with conspiracy and murder in his sleep (his eye-tooth finally unfixed and tucked into a cheek for safekeeping) he dreams of […]
  • Kingdom Animalia, by Aracelis Girmay (4/6/2015) - When I get the call about my brother, I’m on a stopped train leaving town & the news packs into me—freight— though it’s him on the other end now, saying finefine— Forfeit my eyes, I want to turn away from the hair on the floor of his house & how it got there Monday, but […]
  • Kissing Stieglitz Good-Bye, by Gerald Stern (5/17/2015) - Every city in America is approached through a work of art, usually a bridge but sometimes a road that curves underneath or drops down from the sky. Pittsburgh has a tunnel— you don’t know it—that takes you through the rivers and under the burning hills. I went there to cry in the woods or carry […]
  • Knot iii.VII, by Stacy Doris (4/6/2014) - If people could feed on themselves which they can, whether in despair or Pride, time becomes a circulation, reduced and expanded to that, imitating Digestion. Ingesting decomposes any scrap into functions, whereas eating Something other than yourself disprove wholeness. What rewards Rewording might be justice. Then does response outrun responsibility, Overthrow it, so all government’s […]
  • Koi, by Katie Ford (5/19/2015) - After all the days and nights we’ve spent with Starry Messenger, with Dante, with Plato, his temperance painted as a woman who pours water into a bowl but does not spill, after particle theory and the geologic time of this quartz gilded beneath the roaming gone, composites of limestone calculated down to the animal that […]
  • La Pelona as Birdwoman [excerpt], by Rigoberto González (6/15/2015) - Tonight I dared to crawl beneath the sheets to be nailed down around me, waiting for my lover, she who enters without knocking, she who will unstitch my every seam along my thigh, my side, my armpit. She who carves a heart out of the heart and drops it down her throat. Sweet surrender this […]

  • Landing Under Water, I See Roots, by Annie Finch (7/18/2015) - All the things we hide in water hoping we won’t see them go— (forests growing under water press against the ones we know)— and they might have gone on growing and they might now breathe above everything I speak of sowing (everything I try to love).
  • Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors, by Richard Siken (4/13/2015) - To have a thought, there must be an object— the field is empty, sloshed with gold, a hayfield thick with sunshine. There must be an object so land a man there, solid on his feet, on solid ground, in a field fully flooded, enough light to see him clearly, the light on his skin and […]
  • Landscape with Happily Ever After, by Lynn Melnick (4/17/2015) - Near midnight I’m held hostage to the hazy upshot in the corner velvet near a laced up tree and curious how I got here. What a crowd! I think and I think I should hoard my stash in my shoe. Did you catch the census takers trying to autocorrect the shelterbelt out of my history […]
  • Languages, by Carl Sandburg (9/3/2012) - There are no handles upon a language Whereby men take hold of it And mark it with signs for its remembrance. It is a river, this language, Once in a thousand years Breaking a new course Changing its way to the ocean. It is mountain effluvia Moving to valleys And from nation to nation Crossing […]
  • Larkinesque, by Michael Ryan (12/2/2015) - Reading in the paper a summary of a five-year psychological study that shows those perceived as most beautiful are treated differently, I think they could have just asked me, remembering a kind of pudgy kid and late puberty, the bloody noses and wisecracks because I wore glasses, though we all know by now how awful […]
  • Last night, by Michael Broder (4/28/2015) - I dreamt of making sense, parts of speech caught up in sheets and blankets, long strips of fabric wrapped loosely around shoulders, goblets, urns, cups with unmatched saucers. You were there, and the past seemed important, what was said, what was done, feelings felt but maybe not expressed, signs randomly connected yet vital to what […]
  • Last Supper, by Charles Wright (11/22/2015) - I seem to have come to the end of something, but don't know what, Full moon blood orange just over the top of the redbud tree. Maundy Thursday tomorrow, then Good Friday, then Easter in full drag, Dogwood blossoms like little crosses All down the street, lilies and jonquils bowing their mitred heads. Perhaps it's […]
  • Last Things, by William Meredith (7/26/2015) - For Robert Lowell I In the tunnel of woods, as the road Winds up through the freckled light, a porcupine, Larger than life, crosses the road. He moves with the difficulty of relics— Possum, armadillo, horseshoe crab. To us they seem creatures arthritic with time, Winding joylessly down like burnt-out galaxies. In all their slowness […]
  • Late Summer, by Jennifer Grotz (11/4/2015) - Before the moths have even appeared to orbit around them, the streetlamps come on, a long row of them glowing uselessly along the ring of garden that circles the city center, where your steps count down the dulling of daylight. At your feet, a bee crawls in small circles like a toy unwinding. Summer specializes […]
  • Latin & Soul, by Victor Hernández Cruz (2/2/2012) - for Joe Bataan 1 some waves                     a wave of now                                               a trombone speaking to youa piano is trying to break a moleculeis trying to lift the stage into orbitaround the red spotlights a shadowthe shadows      of dancersdancers     they are dancing    fallingout that space      made for dancing they should danceon the tables            they shoulddance inside of […]
  • Layabout, by John Brehm (12/8/2015) - Do nothing and everything will be done, that’s what Mr. Lao Tzu said, who walked around talking 2,500 years ago and now his books practically grow on trees they’re so popular and if he were alive today beautiful women would rush up to him like waves lapping at the shores of his wisdom. That’s the […]
  • Learning How to Make Love, by Denise Duhamel (8/18/2015) - This couple couldn’t figure it out.  The man licked his wife’s genitals while she stared straight ahead.  The woman poked her husband’s testicles with her nose.  The man put his toe in the folds of the woman’s vulva.  The woman took the man’s penis under her armpit.  Neither one of them wanted to be the […]
  • Learning to swim, by Bob Hicok (11/1/2015) - At forty-eight, to be given water, which is most of the world, given life in water, which is most of me, given ease, which is most of what I lack, here, where walls don’t part to my hands, is to be born as of three weeks ago. Taking nothing from you, mother, or you, sky, […]
  • Lenore, by Edgar Allan Poe (4/17/2015) - Ah broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!–a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear?–weep now or never more! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read–the funeral song be […]
  • Less Music, by Marjorie Welish (9/20/2012) - This freedom up. A house difficult of exit, diffident of exit. This flame up. The false house, house of faulty entries. This facade up. The manifold worries architecture. This face up. To the artiface’s winding paths we lend our gloss. This fact up! This house multicursal and continuous. Do you desire to disengage the frontispiece […]
  • Lessons from a Mirror, by Thylias Moss (2/6/2015) - Snow White was nude at her wedding, she’s so white the gown seemed to disappear when she put it on. Put me beside her and the proximity is good for a study of chiaroscuro, not much else. Her name aggravates me most, as if I need to be told what’s white and what isn’t. Judging […]
  • Let Birds, by Linda Gregg (4/5/2015) - Eight deer on the slope in the summer morning mist. The night sky blue. Me like a mare let out to pasture. The Tao does not console me. I was given the Way in the milk of childhood. Breathing it waking and sleeping. But now there is no amazing smell of sperm on my thighs, […]
  • Let Evening Come, by Jane Kenyon (6/11/2012) - Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn, moving up the bales as the sun moves down. Let the cricket take up chafing as a woman takes up her needles and her yarn. Let evening come. Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned in long grass. Let the stars appear and […]
  • Let It Be Forgotten, by Sara Teasdale (11/26/2015) - Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten, Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold, Let it be forgotten for ever and ever, Time is a kind friend, he will make us old. If anyone asks, say it was forgotten Long and long ago, As a flower, as a fire, as a […]
  • Let Me Disappear, by Ray Gonzalez (10/22/2015) - According to scientists, astronauts get taller when they are in space and in Albania, nodding your head means “no” and shaking your head means “yes.” This says I am going to disappear and become a parrot, sitting on my perch in some strange woman’s living room, ready to imitate everything she has to say to […]
  • Let’s Get Out of Here, by Corey Zeller (2/7/2015) - The river is a fish and my tongue is white paper you draw your hand on and the sounds keys make on the waist of a janitor in an empty building on the night of your birth when the moon was a live bird pinned to a girl’s chest and the color of a beat-up […]
  • Letter To A Future Lover, by Ander Monson (5/12/2015) - You were my birthday present; you came to the door—no one else was home, you said “let’s celebrate.” We dropped acid and went to the friend with the nocturnal monkey-like animal and made love for hours…. —inscribed in Gary Snyder, Turtle Island (Casa de los Niños discard library) Handwritten, it goes without saying, this inscription […]
  • Letter to Denise, by Hayden Carruth (7/10/2015) - Remember when you put on that wig From the grab bag and then looked at yourself In the mirror and laughed, and we laughed together? It was a transformation, glamorous flowing tresses. Who knows if you might not have liked to wear That wig permanently, but of course you Wouldn’t. Remember when you told me […]
  • Lights They Live By, by Pamela Alexander (8/14/2015) - 1. nightjar A carafe beside her bed or a glass goose; a piece of water, stoppered, or a solid chunk, like ice? She watches it all night, death, the brightening star. She thinks it is one with her all along or she thinks it is the final thing she contains. She reads all night. Under […]
  • Lillian Gish Goes to Hell, by Richard Siken (2/8/2015) - But she has been there before, has a suite in fact, where she can swan and collapse on a series of fainting couches: velveteen, plush, gem-colored. In 1913, during the production of A Good Little Devil, Lillian collapsed from anemia. She took delight in suffering for art. Although not a religious man, Sartre was fascinated […]
  • Lisbon, by Eliza Griswold (2/9/2015) - We meet midway to walk white cobbles under a fish-flesh gray sky. Europe is collapsing; we are collapsing always and again no matter how hard we love one another. I don’t understand our failure, where the feed loops back and spits us into another country, another junior suite reenacting this same, same beat of a […]
  • Little America, by Jason Shinder (9/22/2015) - My friend says she is like an empty drawer being pulled out of the earth. I am the long neck of the giraffe coming down to see what she doesn’t have. What holds us chained to the same cold river, where we are surprised by the circles we make in the ice? When we talk […]
  • Little Ending, by Charles Wright (5/7/2012) - Bowls will receive us, and sprinkle black scratch in our eyes. Later, at the great fork on the untouchable road, It won’t matter where we have become. Unburdened by prayer, unburdened by any supplication, Someone will take our hand, someone will give us refuge, Circling left or circling right.
  • Long Distance II, by Tony Harrison (5/26/2012) - Though my mother was already two years dead Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas, put hot water bottles her side of the bed and still went to renew her transport pass. You couldn’t just drop in. You had to phone. He’d put you off an hour to give him time to clear away […]
  • Losing Track, by Denise Levertov (2/10/2015) - Long after you have swung back away from me I think you are still with me: you come in close to the shore on the tide and nudge me awake the way a boat adrift nudges the pier: am I a pier half-in half-out of the water? and in the pleasure of that communion I […]
  • Love in a Life, by Robert Browning (5/23/2012) - Room after room, I hunt the house through We inhabit together. Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her, Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her Left in the curtain, the couch’s perfume! As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew,— Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather. Yet the day wears, […]
  • Love Poem, by Dorothea Lasky (2/11/2015) - The rain whistled. A taxi brought me to your apartment building And there I stood. I had dreamed a dream Of us in a bedroom. The light shining upon us in white sheets. You were singing me a song of your sailing days And in the dream I reached deep in you and pulled out […]
  • Love Song for Love Songs, by Rafael Campo (2/14/2015) - A golden age of love songs and we still can’t get it right. Does your kiss really taste like butter cream? To me, the moon’s bright face was neither like a pizza pie nor full; the Beguine began, but my eyelid twitched. “No more I love you’s,” someone else assured us, pouring out her heart, […]
  • Love, Delight, and Alarm [excerpt], by Karen Weiser (5/13/2012) - Then the treehouse burned. And continued unobliterable as the sea to burn. The photo of it burning hangs on its wall, taken from high up, but not that high. The firemen approach cautiously, minus the four-part regimented solace, that would repeat. If the act of painting is Drawing the boundaries of a fire, can I […]
  • Love’s Body, by Jonathan Wells (10/6/2015) - Love gives all its reasons as if they were terms for peace. Love is this but not that that but not this. Love as it always was. But there is no peace in the mountain cleft where the fruit bats scatter from the light. There is no peace in the hollow when the heat snuffs […]
  • Ludwig Van Beethoven’s Return to Vienna, by Rita Dove (3/13/2015) - Oh you men who think or say that I am malevolent, stubborn, or misanthropic, how greatly do you wrong me…. —The Heiligenstadt Testament Three miles from my adopted city lies a village where I came to peace. The world there was a calm place, even the great Danube no more than a pale ribbon tossed […]
  • Lyric, by Khaled Mattawa (2/27/2012) - Will answers be found like seeds planted among rows of song? Will mouths recognize the hunger in their voices, all mouths in unison, the ah in harmony, the way words of hope are more than truth when whispered? Will we turn to each other and ask, how long has it been…how long since? A world […]
  • Magdalene Poem, by John Taggart (5/8/2012) - Love enters the body enters almost almost completely breaks and enters into the body already beaten and broken peaceful if breaking if breaking and entering the already broken is peaceful untouchable fortunately untouchable.
  • maggie and milly and molly and may, by e.e. cummings (4/4/2015) - 10 maggie and milly and molly and may went down to the beach(to play one day) and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and milly befriended a stranded star whose rays five languid fingers were; and molly was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and […]
  • Making a Meal Out of It, by Joel Lewis (5/30/2015) - Hoboken snowtime and the big slushy mounds are the laundry of the future, with next-door’s mortician rating my clumsy shoveling by shouting: “You’d never make it as a grave digger!” Time pulse quickens with walkers and curb lackeys merged in the quadrille of symbiosis. In local shop windows they sell devices capable of reordering speech. […]
  • Man Carrying Thing, by Wallace Stevens (3/24/2012) - The poem must resist the intelligence Almost successfully. Illustration: A brune figure in winter evening resists Identity. The thing he carries resists The most necessitous sense. Accept them, then, As secondary (parts not quite perceived Of the obvious whole, uncertain particles Of the certain solid, the primary free from doubt, Things floating like the first […]
  • Manifest Destiny, by Cynthia Lowen (5/29/2015) - The god I’d left behind sent one last email before returning to his people. That summer was sixty-five degrees and fluorescent. I was working at a law firm. The logical mind thinks, You’ll be paid for your suffering. Paradise is of this earth and it is yours, said the copy-machine. The impenetrable old growth of […]
  • Many-Roofed Building in Midnight, by Jane Hirshfield (1/29/2012) - I found myself suddenly voluminous, three-dimensioned, a many-roofed building in moonlight. Thought traversed me as simply as moths might. Feelings traversed me as fish. I heard myself thinking, It isn’t the piano, it isn’t the ears. Then heard, too soon, the ordinary furnace, the usual footsteps above me. Washed my face again with hot water, […]
  • Marble Hill, by Kazim Ali (8/29/2012) - Paradise lies beneath the feet of your mother. A verse I’ve heard recited so frequently I do not know if it is scripture or hadith. Hadith, meaning traditions of the prophet, are always accompanied by a careful oral lineage of who said what to whom, and who heard who say they heard what. Usually back to […]
  • Mary’s Duties, by Lola Haskins (7/19/2015) - He is rid away to the tenant farms and I take up my pen to list the shakings-out and openings. And my thin letters lean as sails that, though driven, cannot arrive. May the ninth, I write. And: Mrs. Ferguson. Unbutton the bed pillows and plump them to the air. Then: Take the curtains down […]
  • Mary, Color Scientist, by John Beer (6/13/2015) - No one comes here anymore. I have a token NO I have an idea NO I was washed up on a lab table, in the traditional manner. “Everybody wants to say the joyful joyfully, and I finally saw it, when I was destroyed.” Talk all you like, you’re already dead. ** Mary, would you like […]
  • Mass Effect, by Katy Lederer (3/15/2014) - Pushed together, pulled apart, we were purported pluripotent. We developed as an organ, a benign and beating heart. We sought physicians for histology. Discovered spinal symmetry. Within the sacred bowl of life, our innards spilled in red array. I wondered what you’d have to say if in your mouth you grew a tongue. I wondered […]
  • Mass for the Day of St. Thomas Didymus [excerpt], by Denise Levertov (6/1/2012) - ii Gloria Praise the wet snow falling early. Praise the shadow my neighor’s chimney casts on the tile roof even this gray October day that should, they say, have been golden. Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney’s shadow. Praise god or the gods, the unknown, […]
  • Mean Free Path [excerpt], by Ben Lerner (4/16/2012) - For the distances collapsed. For the figure failed to humanize the scale. For the work, the work did nothing but invite us to relate it to the wall. For I was a shopper in a dark aisle. For the mode of address equal to the war was silence, but we went on celebrating doubleness. For […]
  • Meister Eckhart’s Sermon on Flowers and the Philosopher’s Reply, by J. Michael Martinez (5/10/2012) - A hollowed singularity exists in flowers like pathos in a dandelion: an eddy of fate, degreeless, silvering through memory. A scabbed consonant departing the sentence: locust petal, bromeliad, a surfacing shame, lightless, beyond hearing. Solitary, the clock circumvents sound and a horse importunes a wasp bowing before significance. ● It is in fact doubtless a […]

  • Memories of West Street and Lepke, by Robert Lowell (4/20/2015) - Only teaching on Tuesdays, book-worming in pajamas fresh from the washer each morning, I hog a whole house on Boston’s “hardly passionate Marlborough Street,” where even the man scavenging filth in the back alley trash cans, has two children, a beach wagon, a helpmate, and is “a young Republican.” I have a nine months’ daughter, […]
  • memory of water, by Reina María Rodríguez (4/8/2015) - september is a month like any other and unlike any other. it seems in september everything awaited will arrive: in the calm air, in a particular scent, in the stillness of the quay. when september comes, i know i’m going to lose myself. the ants climbing my legs and a certain change of light tell […]
  • Mercury Dressing, by J. D. McClatchy (11/29/2015) - To steal a glance and, anxious, see Him slipping into transparency— The feathered helmet already in place, Its shadow fallen across his face (His hooded sex its counterpart)— Unsteadies the routines of the heart. If I reach out and touch his wing, What harm, what help might he then bring? But suddenly he disappears, As […]
  • Midwinter Day [Excerpt], by Bernadette Mayer (5/15/2012) - I write this love as all transition As if I’m in instinctual flight, a small lady bug With only two black dots on its back Climbs like a blind turtle on my pen And begins to drink ink in the light of tradition We’re allowed to crowd love in Like a significant myth resting still […]
  • MiG-21 Raids at Shegontola, by Mir Mahfuz Ali (8/19/2015) - Only this boy moves between the runes of trees on his tricycle when an eagle swoops, releases two arrows from its silver wings, and melts away faster than lightning. Then a loud whistle and a bang like dry thunder. In a blink the boy sees his house roof sink. Feels his ears ripped off. The […]
  • Mingus at the Showplace, by William Matthews (9/28/2015) - I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen, and so I swung into action and wrote a poem, and it was miserable, for that was how I thought poetry worked: you digested experience and shat literature. It was 1960 at The Showplace, long since defunct, on West 4th St., and I sat at the […]
  • Mint, by Elaine Terranova (2/13/2015) - Already, we’d be driving past those trees, that part of the forest. Even briefly, it refreshed you. It was like mint in August though that sting would be gone with summer. The ground tarnishing first, and soon the leaves. I thought then, men don’t stop. They want so much to get on. What we said, […]
  • Miz Rosa Rides The Bus, by Angela Jackson (6/14/2015) - That day in December I sat down by Miss Muffet of Montgomery. I was myriad-weary. Feets swole from sewing seams on a filthy fabric; tired-sore a pedalin’ the rusty Singer; dingy cotton thread jammed in the eye. All lifelong I’d slide through century-reams loathsome with tears. Dreaming my own silk-self. It was not like they […]
  • Molemen Beat Tapes, by Kevin Coval (8/23/2015) - were copped from Gramophone. cassettes jammed into a factory- issued stereo deck of the hoopty i rolled around in. a bucket. bass and drum looped with some string sample, fixed. a sliver of perfect adjusted. the scrapes of something reconstituted. there was so much space to fill. an invitation to utter. Iqra– Allah said to […]
  • Money Is an Energy, by Justin Marks (9/16/2015) - Everybody is already someone else An existential tag line Money is current I would like to not live paycheck to paycheck You could make a pun on currency but not quite Money is an energy nonetheless Dark space   Dark water A long silent drive Dark matter(s) Driving is my personality The methods of one wor(l)d […]
  • Monna Innominata [I loved you first], by Christina Rossetti (5/22/2012) - I loved you first: but afterwards your love, Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove. Which owes the other most? My love was long, And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong; I loved and guessed at you, you contrued me And loved me for what […]
  • Monna Innominata [I wish I could remember], by Christina Rossetti (5/21/2012) - I wish I could remember that first day, First hour, first moment of your meeting me, If bright or dim the season, it might be Summer or Winter for aught I can say; So unrecorded did it slip away, So blind was I to see and to foresee, So dull to mark the budding of […]
  • Monody to the Sound of Zithers, by Kay Boyle (9/2/2015) - I have wanted other things more than lovers … I have desired peace, intimately to know The secret curves of deep-bosomed contentment, To learn by heart things beautiful and slow. Cities at night, and cloudful skies, I’ve wanted; And open cottage doors, old colors and smells a part; All dim things, layers of river-mist on […]
  • Moon Gathering, by Eleanor Wilner (10/25/2015) - And they will gather by the well, its dark water a mirror to catch whatever stars slide by in the slow precession of the skies, the tilting dome of time, over all, a light mist like a scrim, and here and there some clouds that will open at the last and let the moon shine […]
  • Moonrise, by D. H. Lawrence (11/13/2015) - And who has seen the moon, who has not seen Her rise from out the chamber of the deep, Flushed and grand and naked, as from the chamber Of finished bridegroom, seen her rise and throw Confession of delight upon the wave, Littering the waves with her own superscription Of bliss, till all her lambent […]
  • Moreover, the Moon—, by Mina Loy (11/27/2015) - Face of the skies preside over our wonder. Fluorescent truant of heaven draw us under. Silver, circular corpse your decease infects us with unendurable ease, touching nerve-terminals to thermal icicles Coercive as coma, frail as bloom innuendoes of your inverse dawn suffuse the self; our every corpuscle become an elf.
  • Moss Retains Moisture, by Matthew Rohrer (2/15/2015) - I never believed in bioluminescence before. Here in Moravia where all daylight hides the only illumination is whiskey. Names seem unimportant. Large are the memories growing elsewhere beneath themselves. Do hemlocks burn when stared at? Darkness always retains something shapely. Those leaves engender me. Bedding down in pine-covered nighttime I disappeared. Owls are silent. Bears […]
  • Moths, by Caleb Klaces (6/4/2015) - A translator who has a phobia of moths spent three years translating a book with a moth motif. It’s ironic, she has said, that she knew more about the moths than the author of the original, who was merely fascinated. The translation contained a greater variety of moths than the original, drawn from suggestions she […]
  • Move to the City, by Nathaniel Bellows (2/12/2015) - live life as a stranger. Disappear into frequent invention, depending on the district, wherever you get off the train. For a night, take the name of the person who’d say yes to that offer, that overture, the invitation to kiss that mouth, sit on that lap. Assume the name of whoever has the skill to […]
  • Moving Out, by Sandra M. Gilbert (4/12/2015) - Darling, I’m pushing the house into the garden, into the black arms, the green embrace of the oaks. Yesterday, two giants lugged the grand piano, its synapses still crackling with your tunes, up the steep steps, the narrow path to the gate. Now it muses in the what is this of a warehouse, and the […]
  • Mr. Darcy, by Victoria Chang (4/9/2015) - Then we are in the back seat of a car kissing not the light kind but one where our hands are on each other’s cheeks holding each other’s heads as if they will fall off why does so much love come at the beginning then disappear then once again at the moment before death why […]
  • Muffin of Sunsets, by Elaine Equi (3/18/2014) - The sky is melting. Me too. Who hasn’t seen it this way?   Pink between the castlework of buildings.   Pensive syrup drizzled over clouds.   It is almost catastrophic how heavenly.   A million poets, at least, have stood in this very spot, groceries in hand, wondering:   “Can I witness the Rapture and […]
  • Muse & Drudge [just as I am I come], by Harryette Mullen (5/7/2015) - just as I am I come knee bent and body bowed this here’s sorrow’s home my body’s southern song cram all you can into jelly jam preserve a feeling keep it sweet so beautiful it was presumptuous to alter the shape of my pleasure in doing or making proceed with abandon finding yourself where you […]
  • My Daughter Among the Names, by Farid Matuk (3/29/2014) - Difficult once I’ve said things to know them this morning the lights above the tollway all off at exactly 7:36 all “we took our yellow from the pewter sky.” But we have so many things!   Stories about our diction, the leather couch some trees and our ages. What about all the rooms the sky makes— […]
  • My Father’s Hats, by Mark Irwin (10/5/2015) - Sunday mornings I would reach high into his dark closet while standing on a chair and tiptoeing reach higher, touching, sometimes fumbling the soft crowns and imagine I was in a forest, wind hymning through pines, where the musky scent of rain clinging to damp earth was his scent I loved, lingering on bands, leather, […]
  • My First Memory (of Librarians), by Nikki Giovanni (7/16/2012) - This is my first memory: A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky wood floor A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply too short For me to sit in and read So my first book was always big […]
  • My Grandma’s Love Letters, by Hart Crane (4/25/2015) - There are no stars tonight But those of memory. Yet how much room for memory there is In the loose girdle of soft rain. There is even room enough For the letters of my mother’s mother, Elizabeth, That have been pressed so long Into a corner of the roof That they are brown and soft, […]
  • My Grandmother’s White Cat, by Maurice Kilwein Guevara (11/8/2015) - When fiber-optic, sky blue hair became the fashion, my father began the monthly ritual of shaving his head. It was August, and we were still living in the Projects without a refrigerator. The sound of my mother fluttering through the rosaries in another room reminded me of the flies I'd learned to trap in mid- […]
  • My House, I Say, by Robert Louis Stevenson (10/18/2015) - My house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves That make my roof the arena of their loves, That gyre about the gable all day long And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song: Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs; And mine the […]
  • My Life as a Subject, by Meghan O’Rourke (9/6/2012) - Because I was born in a kingdom, there was a king. At times the king was a despot; at other times, not. Axes flashed in the road at night, but if you closed your eyes sitting on the well-edge amongst your kinspeople and sang the ballads then the silver did not appear to be broken. […]
  • Mysteries of Afternoon and Evening, by Rachel Sherwood (4/27/2015) - The wind is fitful now: soot piles in the corners of new buildings, gulls stumble out of place in ragged branches to skim against a rise of pond water. The children watch, breathless with the birds. They feel an emanation from this shuddering place. This winter evening the sky cracks with cardinal color and we […]
  • Names of Children, by Rachel Sherwood (8/7/2015) - In early morning when the sun is vague and birds are furious names of children float like smoke through the empty room: Ariadne, dark as seal skin Ian, fair-skinned baby Marina Terrence Alex John after dinner pulled back from talk of war and morals their names glow like light around a candle — Jack, my […]
  • Names, by Fady Joudah (6/29/2015) - Thank you for dreaming of mefor letting me knowfor waking up to remember that you dreamedI never wake up when I dream of you What woke you upwas it someoneelse’s body? A small thrill a little secret is oursa desire for safe travelin unspilled blood
  • National Poetry Month, by Elaine Equi (4/6/2015) - When a poem speaks by itself, it has a spark and can be considered part of a divine conversation. Sometimes the poem weaves like a basket around two loaves of yellow bread. “Break off a piece of this April with its raisin nipples,” it says. “And chew them slowly under your pillow. You belong in […]
  • Nature, That Washed Her Hands in Milk, by Sir Walter Ralegh (9/29/2015) - Nature, that washed her hands in milk, And had forgot to dry them, Instead of earth took snow and silk, At love’s request to try them, If she a mistress could compose To please love’s fancy out of those. Her eyes he would should be of light, A violet breath, and lips of jelly; Her […]
  • Nearly a Valediction, by Marilyn Hacker (4/10/2015) - You happened to me. I was happened to like an abandoned building by a bull- dozer, like the van that missed my skull happened a two-inch gash across my chin. You were as deep down as I’ve ever been. You were inside me like my pulse. A new- born flailing toward maternal heartbeat through the […]
  • Negotiations, by Rae Armantrout (5/13/2015) - 1 The best part is when we’re tired of it all in the same degree, a fatigue we imagine to be temporary, and we lie near each other, toes touching. What’s done is done, we don’t say, to begin our transaction, each letting go of something without really bringing it to mind until we’re lighter, […]
  • Never Ever, by Brenda Shaughnessy (4/13/2015) - Alarmed, today is a new dawn, and that affair recurs daily like clockwork, undone at dusk, when a new restaurant emerges in the malnourished night. We said it would be this way, once this became the way it was. So in a way we were waiting for it. I still haven’t eaten, says the cook […]
  • New York Notes, by Harvey Shapiro (8/12/2015) - 1. Caught on a side street in heavy traffic, I said to the cabbie, I should have walked. He replied, I should have been a doctor. 2. When can I get on the 11:33 I ask the guy in the information booth at the Atlantic Avenue Station. When they open the doors, he says. I […]
  • Night Feeding, by Muriel Rukeyser (4/22/2015) - Deeper than sleep but not so deep as death I lay there dreaming and my magic head remembered and forgot. On first cry I remembered and forgot and did believe. I knew love and I knew evil: woke to the burning song and the tree burning blind, despair of our days and the calm milk-giver […]
  • Night Life, by Vivian Smith (10/12/2015) - Disturbed at 2 a.m. I hear a claw scratching the window, tapping at the pane, and then I realise, a broken branch, and yet I can’t turn back to sleep again. Slowly, not to wake you, I get up, thinking of food, perhaps a quiet read. A cockroach runs across the kitchen floor, its lacquered […]
  • Night Train Through Inner Mongolia, by Anthony Piccione (7/27/2015) - Now the child is a runny-nosed stranger you’ve finally decided to share your seat with, and the whole thing keeps heaving into the dark. The child sleeps unsweetly hunched against you, your side is slowly stinging, he has wet himself, so you do not move at all. I know you. You sit awake, baffling about […]
  • Nights On The Peninsula, by D. Nurkse (4/11/2015) - We could not separate ourselves from our endless making. We were always fabricating time, God, paradise, the bell-shaped lupines, the rough-grained elm and smooth beech. We made the night sky from a rusty hinge, the sea from a sigh and a bead of sweat. We made love long before dawn. We constantly modified each other, […]
  • Nimis Compos Mentis, by Leslie Monsour (10/18/2015) - (Too sound of mind) The paper table cloth was tastefully bleak, The misty morning light shone on his cheek, And made him look alone and masculine. He talked of Seneca and bad translations, Of modern critics’ lightweight observations; A bread crumb rested sweetly on his chin. Behind him, through the glass, the ocean’s heave Uncurled […]
  • NINE, 86, by Anne Tardos (6/25/2015) - The insubstantial and changing quality of space is appreciated. Intellectual understanding is based on harmless and spontaneous perception. Supposition gold-digger advocating pleasure—be the laughing stock! Amber cushion softly evident seagull commentary, we shall prevail. Tirelessly pedaling along the ever present source of ideas. Long, drawn-out suffering is not what we’re after. Palpably diligent search for […]
  • ninth: a conversation between Annabot and the Human Machine on the subject of overpowering emotion, by Anna Moschovakis (4/14/2014) - (Note: Though Annabot is ostensibly downloadable, the attempt to open her produced an error, a string of errors.) ANNABOT: What now? HUMAN MACHINE: The Brain, the brain—that is the seat of trouble! ANNABOT: My brain, whose brain? Those who feel, feel. HUMAN MACHINE: On the blink? ANNABOT: Or, discipline. The brain is a machine of […]
  • No Word, by Kenneth Rexroth (12/6/2015) - The trees hang silent In the heat . . . . . Undo your heart Tell me your thoughts What you were And what you are . . . . . Like bells no one Has ever rung.
  • No world is intact, by Alice Notley (8/17/2015) - No world is intact and no one cares about you. I leaned down over don’t care about, I care about you I leaned down over the world in portrayal of carefulness, answering something you couldn’t say. walking or fallen and you were supposed to give therapy to me— me leaning down brushing with painted feathers […]
  • No, Love Is Not Dead, by Robert Desnos (2/14/2012) - No, love is not dead in this heart these eyes and this mouth that announced the start of its own funeral. Listen, I’ve had enough of the picturesque, the colorful and the charming. I love love, its tenderness and cruelty. My love has only one name, one form. Everything disappears. All mouths cling to that […]
  • Nocturne, by Wayne Miller (3/19/2015) - Tonight all the leaves are paper spoons in a broth of wind. Last week they made a darker sky below the sky. The houses have swallowed their colors, and each car moves in the blind sack of its sound like the slipping of water. Flowing means falling very slowly— the river passing under the tracks, […]

  • Non-lieux, by Erika Meitner (3/4/2015) - Hand-painted on the side of a shack we pass on the road to Ohio: what this world comin to? This is not haiku. This is more like fog and we’re socked in and your body is invisible and right across from me simultaneously. How much ammo you got? says one guy to another in the […]
  • Notebook of a Return to the Native Land [excerpt], by Aimé Césaire (4/21/2012) - At the end of daybreak. . . Beat it, I said to him, you cop, you lousy pig, beat it, I detest the flunkies of order and the cockchafers of hope. Beat it, evil grigri, you bedbug of a petty monk. Then I turned toward paradises lost for him and his kin, calmer than the […]
  • Notes from the Other Side, by Jane Kenyon (5/2/2012) - I divested myself of despair and fear when I came here. Now there is no more catching one’s own eye in the mirror, there are no bad books, no plastic, no insurance premiums, and of course no illness. Contrition does not exist, nor gnashing of teeth. No one howls as the first clod of earth […]
  • Nothing Stays Put, by Amy Clampitt (8/30/2012) - In memory of Father Flye, 1884-1985 The strange and wonderful are too much with us. The protea of the antipodes—a great, globed, blazing honeybee of a bloom— for sale in the supermarket! We are in our decadence, we are not entitled. What have we done to deserve all the produce of the tropics— this fiery […]
  • Now that no one looking, by Adam Kirsch (4/9/2012) - Now that no one looking at the night— Sky blanked by leakage from electric lamps And headlights prowling through the parking lot Could recognize the Babylonian dance That once held every gazer; now that spoons And scales, and swordsmen battling with beasts Have decomposed into a few stars strewn Illegibly across an empty space, Maybe […]
  • Now, by Liam Rector (7/24/2012) - Now I see it: a few years To play around while being Bossed around By the taller ones, the ones With the money And more muscle, however Tender or indifferent They might be at being Parents; then off to school And the years of struggle With authority while learning Violent gobs of things one didn’t […]
  • Oblivion Speaks, by Sarah Manguso (3/4/2012) - I am not here to ruin you. I am already in you. I am the work you don’t do. I am what you understand best and wordless. I am with you in your chair and in your song. I am what you avoid and what you stop avoiding. I am what’s left when there is […]
  • October (section I), by Louise Glück (10/1/2012) - Is it winter again, is it cold again, didn’t Frank just slip on the ice, didn’t he heal, weren’t the spring seeds planted didn’t the night end, didn’t the melting ice flood the narrow gutters wasn’t my body rescued, wasn’t it safe didn’t the scar form, invisible above the injury terror and cold, didn’t they […]
  • Odd Jobs, by Jericho Brown (11/6/2015) - I spent what light Saturday sent sweating And learned to cuss cutting grass for women Kind enough to say they couldn’t tell the damned Difference between their mowed lawns And their vacuumed carpets just before Handing over a five-dollar bill rolled tighter Than a joint and asking me in to change A few light bulbs. […]
  • Ode to Spring, by Frederick Seidel (4/22/2012) - I can only find words for. And sometimes I can’t. Here are these flowers that stand for. I stand here on the sidewalk. I can’t stand it, but yes of course I understand it. Everything has to have meaning. Things have to stand for something. I can’t take the time. Even skin-deep is too deep. […]
  • Of the Surface of Things, by Wallace Stevens (5/18/2012) - I In my room, the world is beyond my understanding; But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a cloud. II From my balcony, I survey the yellow air, Reading where I have written, “The spring is like a belle undressing.” III The gold tree is blue, The […]
  • Offerings, by Howard Altmann (10/17/2015) - To the night I offered a flower and the dark sky accepted it like earth, bedding for light. To the desert I offered an apple and the dunes received it like a mouth, speaking for wind. To the installation I offered a tree and the museum planted it like a man, viewing his place. To […]
  • Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow, by Robert Duncan (5/11/2015) - as if it were a scene made-up by the mind, that is not mine, but is a made place, that is mine, it is so near to the heart, an eternal pasture folded in all thought so that there is a hall therein that is a made place, created by light wherefrom the shadows that […]
  • Oklahoma City: The Aftermath, by Ira Sadoff (6/24/2015) - Sometimes I’m so lachrymose I forget I was there with my darling—I call her my darling to make her more anonymous, so she can’t take up all the space in my brain. But please, can I continue, or must I look away from such openness, those spools of light bringing red and fine threads of […]
  • Old Boy, by A. Van Jordan (11/3/2015) - (Park Chan-Wook, 2003) If one rainy night you find yourself leaving a phone booth, and you meet a man with a lavender umbrella, resist your desire to follow him, to seek shelter from the night in his solace. Later, don’t fall victim to the Hypnotist’s narcotic of clarity, which proves a curare for the heart; […]
  • Old Photographs, by Gabeba Baderoon (1/30/2012) - On my desk is a photograph of you taken by the woman who loved you then. In some photos her shadow falls in the foreground. In this one, her body is not that far from yours. Did you hold your head that way because she loved it? She is not invisible, not my enemy, nor […]
  • On 52nd Street, by Philip Levine (5/22/2015) - Down sat Bud, raised his hands, the Deuces silenced, the lights lowered, and breath gathered for the coming storm. Then nothing, not a single note. Outside starlight from heaven fell unseen, a quarter- moon, promised, was no show, ditto the rain. Late August of ‘50, NYC, the long summer of abundance and our new war. […]
  • On a Door, by Jordan Davis (12/15/2015) - With practice I could fold a rose Or a theory of prose or some treason But what is to be got—a satire? Expedience? the opera of laughter? I know conviction from the convict, The senator from February.
  • On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong (9/8/2015) - i Tell me it was for the hunger & nothing less. For hunger is to give the body what it knows it cannot keep. That this amber light whittled down by another war is all that pins my hand to your chest. i You, drowning between my arms— stay. You, pushing your body into the […]
  • On Happier Lawns, I, by Justin Marks (9/24/2015) - In the days of yore I was a parakeet and my mouth a river The lights low to see into other worlds Vessels completing circuits Ancient conjurings and obscure geometries Screens so lovely If I have a true self it is you Blood, slow Dimensionally agnostic and lost in the loam A gun- powder portrait […]
  • On Hearing That My Poems Were Being Studied in a Distant Place, by Hyam Plutzik (2/16/2015) - What are they mumbling about me there? “Here,” they say, “he suffered; here was glad.” Are words clothes or the putting off of clothes?” The scene is as follows: my book is open On thirty desks; the teacher expounds my life. Outside the window the Pacific roars like a lion. Beside which my small words […]
  • On Living, by Nazim Hikmet (3/17/2012) - I Living is no laughing matter: you must live with great seriousness like a squirrel, for example– I mean without looking for something beyond and above living, I mean living must be your whole occupation. Living is no laughing matter: you must take it seriously, so much so and to such a degree that, for […]
  • On Looking for Models, by Alan Dugan (12/6/2015) - The trees in time have something else to do besides their treeing. What is it. I’m a starving to death man myself, and thirsty, thirsty by their fountains but I cannot drink their mud and sunlight to be whole. I do not understand these presences that drink for months in the dirt, eat light, and […]
  • On My Third Anniversary in New Jersey, by Noelle Kocot (11/10/2015) - It’s the fern beyond the wind, the classic Eruptions. Night is a funnel that is overcome. Violence of signs beyond the pale. Stasis Has its own way, the hard work, the violence. Convalesce, convalesce in the green green World, in which you could hardly walk, But that was before, before life set its rhythms In […]
  • On The Bus Someday, by Jessica Greenbaum (2/17/2015) - Of that string of memories about our lost friendship I remember being invited places as a pair, like a comedy team; and after one party, our self-parody of our own stammering speechlessness when introduced to Henrik, the Swedish god auto mechanic; our twin, garish, purple-flowered swimsuits from Kmart, outlining, around Texas, our sameness and differences; […]
  • On the Disadvantages of Central Heating, by Amy Clampitt (5/19/2012) - cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod stove-warmed flatiron slid under the covers, mornings a damascene- sealed bizarrerie of fernwork decades ago now waking in northwest London, tea brought up steaming, a Peak Frean biscuit alongside to be nibbled as blue gas leaps up singing decades ago now damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung habitat of […]
  • On the Platform, by Tom Sleigh (6/18/2015) - 1 The omen I didn’t know I was waiting for pulled into the station the same instant as the train. It was just a teenage boy busking on the platform, cello cutting through garble, Bach’s repetitions hard-edged as a scalpel probing an open wound. But then I kept thinking how a sound wave travels the […]
  • On the Terrace, by Landis Everson (3/21/2012) - The lonely breakfast table starts the day, an adjustment is made to understand why the other chair is empty. The morning beautiful and still to be, should woo me. Yet the appetite is not shared, lost somewhere in memory. How lucky the horizon is blue and needs no handwriting on its emptiness. I am written […]
  • On Translation, by Mónica de la Torre (7/10/2012) - Not to search for meaning, but to reedify a gesture, an intent. As a translator, one grows attached to originals. Seldom are choices so purposeful. At midday, the translator meets with the poet at a café at the intersection where for decades whores and cross-dressers have lined up at night for passers-by to peruse. Not […]
  • On Upnor Road, by Elizabeth Spires (3/19/2012) - Set back from the street behind a stand of trees, a shuttered house unnoticed by casual passers-by, where I see you standing in the middle of your life, poised to enter a summer evening where there will be drinks and then a meal on an old stone terrace, and it will seem, as the glass […]
  • On. On. Stop. Stop., by Saskia Hamilton (5/8/2015) - In the old recording of the birthday party, the voices of the living and the dead instruct twelve absent friends on the reliable luxury of gratitude. The celebrated one hands out presents. The dead dog barks once. We take one another’s hands and follow their lead, past the garden wall, out to the land still […]
  • One Art, by Elizabeth Bishop (2/11/2012) - The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, […]
  • One Day, by Joseph Millar (5/24/2015) - Everything shimmers with the sound of the train rattling over the bridge especially the ears and nostrils and teeth of the horse riding out to the pasture of death where the long train runs on diesel fuel that used to run on coal. I keep listening for the crickets and birds and my words fall […]
  • One of the Dummies at Night, by Gibson Fay-LeBlanc (4/29/2012) - He slept in the tinder box his master made, and oak grain governed the dreaming— his left eye clouded over, he closed the other and saw mild applause in his future. His bed sat at a crevice edge, pure pitch below, and a cold wind slowed the senses, rising from who knows where. Later his […]
  • One Shies at the Prospect of Raising Yet Another Defense of Cannibalism, by Josh Bell (3/6/2014) - “You can’t kiss a movie,” Jean Luc Godard said, and this is mostly true, in that you cannot initiate the kiss. The Movie could initiate the kiss if The Movie wanted, as it is so much taller, leaning in, no way to demur, you would be too polite anyway, and, as the Roman poets have […]
  • Ontario, by Mark Levine (4/15/2015) - Beauty in its winter slippers approached us by degrees on the gravel path. We were hitching a ride out; had been hitching. Our suitcase freighted with a few gardening tools lifted from the shed while the old man, old enough, looked away. He who went fishing at night (so he said) carrying in his pail […]
  • Orfeo, by Jack Spicer (4/9/2015) - Sharp as an arrow Orpheus Points his music downward. Hell is there At the bottom of the seacliff. Heal Nothing by this music. Eurydice Is a frigate bird or a rock or some seaweed. Hail nothing The infernal Is a slippering wetness out at the horizon. Hell is this: The lack of anything but the […]
  • Orion, by Susan Gevirtz (6/19/2012) - What you make on Orion I leave to you What you take from Orion I take to you Far far away where the swans fly to when we are having winter, lived a King who had eleven sons and one daughter Hans Christian Andersen in the greening time there was once there was a because […]
  • osculation for easter flower , by Sandra Miller (3/28/2012) - if we weren’t made of soot—which we highly suspected/respected in her garden—she had no garden we did not love her—we did not let her picture fall from our wall forgive & foment—no one kissed me where like bad jewels—good black dirt what song can’t do & does—magnificent thumper in the wild ‘the secret blackness of […]
  • Our Bodies Break Light, by Traci Brimhall (7/12/2012) - We crawl through the tall grass and idle light, our chests against the earth so we can hear the river underground. Our backs carry rotting wood and books that hold no stories of damnation or miracles. One day as we listen for water, we find a beekeeper— one eye pearled by a cataract, the other […]
  • Our Many Never Endings, by Courtney Queeney (7/21/2015) - You entered the bedroom and fell to your knees. I wait the rest of my life to hear you say, I made a mistake. Inside my chest, a mangle. Inside yours, a deflating balloon. You took the vacuum cleaner, the ironing board, the dish rack and left me some lint, an iron to scorch shirts, […]
  • Our Post-Soviet History Unfolds, by Eleanor Lerman (8/22/2015) - This is what she says about Russia, in the year 2000, in a restaurant on Prince Street, late on a summer night She says: all the chandeliers were broken and in the winter, you couldn’t get a drink, not even that piss from Finland. The whole country was going crazy. She thinks she is speaking […]
  • Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley (2/23/2015) - I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet […]
  • Packet, by Jamie Ross (6/3/2015) - A green light that comes when you never saw it coming, never heard it, felt it, but you knew it like the woman in the sandlot behind Abram’s Grill who’s just lost her lenses, on her hands and knees, her hair cut short but seems as if it’s flowing, and the rush on her throat […]
  • Painting by Moonlight, by Medbh McGuckian (9/28/2015) - It was a bright inviting, freely formed, though I suppose it was I who brightened, with an internal scattering of light, as though weather maps were more real than the breath of autumn. The low colourfulness of the broken and dying leaves was no embrittlement to every decided colour on the sunlighted grass and the […]
  • Panther, by Ned O’Gorman (5/22/2015) - When the panther came no belfrey rang alarums, no cleric spat his tea. When the panther came the sky and lawn were still. The panter came through forest, through field, up to the wall and my one blossoming cherry tree. I had constructed the world as it was and had pared the body from the […]
  • Parkeresque, by Rebecca Wolff (4/30/2012) - I’d like a lidless Vicodin. Oblivion. Countless sensation of him leaving the room. Come back soon. It occurred to me fait accompli. Clinamen. Phantom limb. Black cat sleeping (you used to be next to me) next to me dreams our lost telepathy.
  • Parochial Poetry, by Ben Doller (7/24/2015) - whiter I make it when walking right in unswerved, sweating fluorescent bleach, preaching a moon page that says its welts: learn this by heart is empty but do it to do it. I make it somehow whiter, zombied and I opified allover the absolutely whitest room. I say keep your lines in line and look […]
  • Parowan Canyon, by David Lee (5/4/2015) - When granite and sandstone begin to blur and flow, the eye rests on cool white aspen. Strange, their seeming transparency. How as in a sudden flash one remembers a forgotten name, so the recollection. Aspen. With a breeze in them, their quiet rhythms, shimmering, quaking. Powder on the palm. Cool on the cheek. Such delicacy […]
  • Passage I, by Maureen N. McLane (9/19/2012) - little moth I do not think you’ll escape this night I do not think you’ll escape this night little moth * bees in clover summer half over friends without lovers * I bite a carrot horsefly bites me * I thought it was you moving through the trees but it was the trees I thought […]

  • Passage, by Eve Alexandra (9/21/2012) - Tiny jewels of sand and salt spill from her mouth. Her lips lie like cloistered nuns. But her ears—they open like lilies. And suddenly all around her there are songs being sung. New notes slick and green, currency on everyone else’s tongue. Her own was slow, cut from the wrong cloth, it hadn’t been out […]
  • Passerby, These are Words, by Yves Bonnefoy (11/19/2015) - Passerby, these are words. But instead of reading I want you to listen: to this frail Voice like that of letters eaten by grass. Lend an ear, hear first of all the happy bee Foraging in our almost rubbed-out names. It flits between two sprays of leaves, Carrying the sound of branches that are real […]
  • Peanut Butter, By Eileen Myles (6/19/2015) - I am always hungry & wanting to have sex. This is a fact. If you get right down to it the new unprocessed peanut butter is no damn good & you should buy it in a jar as always in the largest supermarket you know. And I am an enemy of change, as you know. […]
  • Perfect Woman, by William Wordsworth (4/5/2015) - She was a phantom of delight When first she gleam’d upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To […]
  • Pericardium, by Joanna Klink (11/30/2015) - Am I not alone, as I thought I was, as I thought The day was, the hour I walked into, morning When I felt night fly from my chest where prospect had Slackened, and close itself off, understanding, as I thought I did, That the ground would resist my legs and not let them Break […]
  • Personals, by C. D. Wright (12/13/2015) - Some nights I sleep with my dress on. My teeth are small and even. I don’t get headaches. Since 1971 or before, I have hunted a bench where I could eat my pimento cheese in peace. If this were Tennessee and across that river, Arkansas, I’d meet you in West Memphis tonight. We could have […]
  • Peyote Poem [excerpt], by Michael McClure (6/22/2012) - Clear — the senses bright — sitting in the black chair — Rocker — the white walls reflecting the color of clouds moving over the sun. Intimacies! The rooms not important — but like divisions of all space of all hideousness and beauty. I hear the music of myself and write it down for no […]
  • Photo of a Girl on a Beach, by Carmen Giménez Smith (9/10/2015) - Once when I was harmless and didn’t know any better, a mirror to the front of me and an ocean behind, I lay wedged in the middle of daylight, paper-doll thin, dreaming, then I vanished. I gave the day a fingerprint, then forgot. I sat naked on a towel on a hot June Monday. The […]
  • Plague of Dead Sharks, by Alan Dugan (11/7/2015) - Who knows whether the sea heals or corrodes? The wading, wintered pack-beasts of the feet slough off, in spring, the dead rind of the shoes’ leather detention, the big toe’s yellow horn shines with a natural polish, and the whole person seems to profit. The opposite appears when dead sharks wash up along the beach […]
  • Playback, by Lauren Camp (9/7/2015) - Let there be footfall and car door. Let me be finished with fire. Let the man get on a plane for his morning departure, erasing each reverie. Soon there will be only daylight, maybe a blue envelope, torn. Maybe bracelets of color from the petunias. I will need to know how to recover the familiar, […]
  • please advise stop [I was dragging a ladder slowly over stones stop], by Rusty Morrison (7/14/2012) - I was dragging a ladder slowly over stones stop it was only from out of my thoughts that I could climb stop not from the room please my father’s dying offered an indelicate washing of my perception stop the way the centers of some syllables scrub away all other sound stop his corpse merely preparing […]
  • Poem Entering the Apple Valley Target, by Lynn Melnick (4/10/2014) - Into the fluorescent rough country headlong into bulks of flesh impatient to outspend me and who wouldn’t fold real quick under the weight of America’s sales and specials. I believed then I didn’t that I was different than I am in my own skin in this infinity mirror, instructed such to seduce myself, to go […]
  • Poem for Adlai Stevenson and Yellow Jackets, by David Young (7/30/2015) - It’s summer, 1956, in Maine, a camp resort on Belgrade Lakes, and I am cleaning fish, part of my job, along with luggage, firewood, Sunday ice cream, waking everyone by jogging around the island every morning swinging a rattle I hold in front of me to break the nightly spider threads. Adlai Stevenson is being […]
  • Poem for circulation, by Anselm Berrigan (4/5/2014) - Things surrounding things fill my Wicked Tuna grid heart with a swishy austerity-like intention. I cut my post-fleshy forearms & bleed a serious parallel echo chamber reading everything to approve of nothing. I massage my anterior cruciate ligaments to celebrate a hard won royal flush. This mind is slick-like and easy-like and music-like and gesture-like […]
  • Poem for Japan, by Matthew Zapruder (5/5/2012) - all day staying inside listening to a podcast discuss how particles over the Pacific might drift I knew thinking whenever cloud scares me I am not alone my umbrella slept in the closet I placed a few nouns in beautiful cages then let them out touched with my mind the lucky cat asleep in the […]
  • Poem In Which Words Have Been Left Out, by Charles Jensen (3/14/2012) - —The “Miranda Rights,” established 1966 You have the right to remain anything you can and will be. An attorney you cannot afford will be provided to you. You have silent will. You can be against law. You cannot afford one. You remain silent. Anything you say will be provided to you. The right can and […]
  • Poem Interrupted by Whitesnake, by Timothy Donnelly (4/11/2014) - That agreeable feeling we haven’t yet been able to convert into words to our satisfaction despite several conscious attempts to do so might prove in the end to be nothing more than satisfaction itself, an advanced new formula just sitting there waiting to be marketed as such: Let my logo be the couch I can […]
  • Poem with Lines from Pierre Reverdy, by Sandra Simonds (5/5/2015) - Maybe the world will not be saved. It will not be saved. Its commerce, its every case also moves into its geology and then that geology moves into some great exit of slowing clocks and the history of saved light. Listen, I’m not crazy. I want you to save something for me. If someone says […]
  • Poem, by Rachel Zucker (3/28/2014) - The other day Matt Rohrer said, the next time you feel yourself going dark in a poem, just don’t, and see what happens. That was when Matt, Deborah Landau, Catherine Barnett, and I were chatting, on our way to somewhere and something else. In her office, a few minutes earlier, Deborah had asked, are you […]
  • Poetry Anonymous, by Prageeta Sharma (7/22/2015) - Do not fall in love with a poet they are no more honest than a stockbroker. (Do you have a stockbroker? If you do, your poet is with you because you have one.) If you think that they are more sensitive because they care about language pay attention to how they use language. Are you […]
  • Porch Swing in September, by Ted Kooser (5/4/2015) - The porch swing hangs fixed in a morning sun that bleaches its gray slats, its flowered cushion whose flowers have faded, like those of summer, and a small brown spider has hung out her web on a line between porch post and chain so that no one may swing without breaking it. She is saying […]
  • Postcard: Read beyond that which…, by Heather Christle (9/7/2012) - Read beyond that which immediately pleases you, please.
  • Practicing Vigilance, by Bianca Stone (10/3/2015) - Every day try and write down one terrible thing. One terrible thing—I’m filled with them, carry each one like an organ locked in a Coleman cooler. Add a little color for emphasis. I say my father’s surname to a migration of crows. His name like a figure jumping out of an aerodynamic object through a […]
  • Prayer to Shadows on My Wall, by Mark McMorris (9/17/2015) - Soon the rushlights will go out in the flesh of sympathetic bodies once close to my own hand and I will go to my hammock, thinking of little except the numbness that alone makes bearable the wind’s twisting. I want atoms to separate like hairs or dust onto the heads of my daughters. I want […]
  • Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note, by Amiri Baraka (8/21/2015) - for Kellie Jones, born 16 May 1959 Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelopes me Each time I go out to walk the dog. Or the broad edged silly music the wind Makes when I run for a bus… Things have come to that. And now, each night I […]
  • Preface to the “Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion”, by Nick Lantz (6/2/2015) - In the late spring of 1985, we met in the weedy lot of the Orchid Pavilion Nursery for a little ritual purification. Everyone came, all the half-brothers and half-sisters, the children not yet born, and men so old they were young again. We sat beside the aqueduct, and gold cans of beer floated down to […]
  • Prefix: Finding the measure, by Robert Kelly (4/12/2014) - Finding the measure is finding the mantram, is finding the moon, as index of measure, is finding the moon’s source; if that source is Sun, finding the measure is finding the natural articulation of ideas. The organism of the macrocosm, the organism of language, the organism of I combine in ceaseless naturing to propagate a […]
  • Preludes, by T. S. Eliot (4/23/2015) - I The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street […]
  • Present Light, by Charles Ghigna (8/28/2015) - If I could hold light in my hand I would give it to you and watch it become your shadow.
  • Pretty Polly, by Jane Springer (5/21/2015) - Who made the banjo sad & wrong? Who made the luckless girl & hell bound boy? Who made the ballad? The one, I mean, where lovers gallop down mountain brush as though in love- where hooves break ground to blood earth scent. Who gave the boy swift words to woo the girl from home, & […]
  • Prints, by Joseph Bruchac (7/23/2015) - Seeing photos of ancestors a century past is like looking at your own fingerprints— circles and lines you can’t recognize until someone else with a stranger’s eye looks close and says that’s you.
  • Problems with Hurricanes, by Victor Hernández Cruz (4/24/2015) - A campesino looked at the air And told me: With hurricanes it’s not the wind or the noise or the water. I’ll tell you he said: it’s the mangoes, avocados Green plantains and bananas flying into town like projectiles. How would your family feel if they had to tell The generations that you got killed […]
  • Prophecy, by Dana Gioia (8/31/2012) - Sometimes a child will stare out of a window for a moment or an hour—deciphering the future from a dusky summer sky. Does he imagine that some wisp of cloud reveals the signature of things to come? Or that the world’s a book we learn to translate? And sometimes a girl stands naked by a […]
  • Proverbs of Hell, by William Blake (4/3/2012) - From “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell” In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy. Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead. The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity. He who desires but acts not, […]
  • Purism, by Vona Groarke (10/14/2015) - The wind orchestrates its theme of loneliness and the rain has too much glitter in it, yes. They are like words, the wrong ones, insisting I listen to sense. But I too am obstinate. I have white walls, white curtained windows. What need have I of the night’s jet-black, outlandish ornament? What I am after […]
  • Put Down That TV Tray, by Sina Queyras (12/19/2015) - All I ever wanted was that living room, Sunday evening, chicken In the roaster, that deep orange sofa, that maple table Spread out like a wagon wheel upon which cups of tea floated And macramé or puzzles could be assembled. Don’t tell me Disney isn’t reality: whole cities have ticked by in nylon print T-shirts, […]
  • Pyrotechnics, by Amy Lowell (5/8/2015) - I Our meeting was like the upward swish of a rocket In the blue night. I do not know when it burst; But now I stand gaping, In a glory of falling stars. II Hola! Hola! shouts the crowd, as the catherine-wheels sputter and turn. Hola! They cheer the flower-pots and set pieces. And nobody […]
  • Quandary, by Louise Mathias (2/18/2015) - All night I flew the dark recess of God’s mind. It was arranged like Iowa fields– not a damn thing missing. You ask how I survived. I lived on a message, broad light at the end of the world. Words, they have so much in common with departure, the clouds elliptical & nervous. Why translate? […]
  • Quatrains, by Gwendolyn Bennett (8/25/2012) - 1 Brushes and paints are all I have To speak the music in my soul— While silently there laughs at me A copper jar beside a pale green bowl. 2 How strange that grass should sing— Grass is so still a thing … And strange the swift surprise of snow So soft it falls and […]
  • Queen Maeve, by Eloise Bruce (7/14/2015) - Dreaming within these walls all night, we woke with both eyes open, barely winking at the morning light. We shower and sing with the long-legged fly. Queen Maeve keeps time in the attic, and the pig-keepers roar in the toy box below stairs. Turn out the lamp whose fringe rhymes with orange. Our words wait […]
  • Quid Pro Quo, by Paul Mariani (7/29/2015) - Just after my wife’s miscarriage (her second in four months), I was sitting in an empty classroom exchanging notes with my friend, a budding Joyce scholar with steelrimmed glasses, when, lapsed Irish Catholic that he was, he surprised me by asking what I thought now of God’s ways toward man. It was spring, such spring […]
  • Quincenañera, by Judith Ortiz Cofer (11/7/2015) - My dolls have been put away like dead children in a chest I will carry with me when I marry. I reach under my skirt to feel a satin slip bought for this day. It is soft as the inside of my thighs. My hair has been nailed back with my mother’s black hairpins to […]
  • R.S.V.P., by Jeanne Marie Beaumont (11/23/2015) - The road out front is all torn up and has remained that way for a long time. One day they tractor-pulled the trunk of a fallen tree, its roots undone by the doings. Saw crews came in and buzzed for days like a disturbed hive. I could not save the flowers. Pyramids of pipe plastic […]
  • Radar Data #12, by Lytton Smith (3/2/2014) - It was in the absence of light as when near new moon and no moonlight; as when a part of a picture is in shadow (as opposed to a light); as when in the condition of being hidden from view, obscure, or unknown—in concealment, or else without knowledge as regards to some particular; and of […]
  • Rain, by Claribel Alegría (2/5/2012) - As the falling rain trickles among the stones memories come bubbling out. It’s as if the rain had pierced my temples. Streaming streaming chaotically come memories: the reedy voice of the servant telling me tales of ghosts. They sat beside me the ghosts and the bed creaked that purple-dark afternoon when I learned you were […]
  • Rapture: Lucus, by Traci Brimhall (7/7/2015) - Posters for the missing kapok tree appear on streetlights offering a reward for its safe return. I hate to spoil it, but the end of every biography is death. The end of a city in the rainforest is a legend and a lost expedition. The end of mythology is forgetfulness, placing gifts in the hole where the worshipped tree should be. But my […]
  • Readings in French, by Larry Levis (7/20/2015) - 1. Looking into the eyes of Gerard de Nerval You notice the giant sea crabs rising. Which is what happens When you look into the eyes of Gerard de Nerval, Always the same thing: the giant sea crabs, The claws in their vague red holsters Moving around, a little doubtfully. 2. But looking into the […]
  • real poem (personal statement), by Rachel Zucker (12/23/2015) - I skim sadness like fat off the surface of cooling soup. Don’t care about metaphor but wish it would arrive me. There’s a cool current of air this hot day I want to ride. I have no lover, not even my love. I have no other, not even I.
  • Reasons, by Thomas James (10/26/2015) - For our own private reasons We live in each other for an hour. Stranger, I take your body and its seasons, Aware the moon has gone a little sour For us. The moon hangs up there like a stone Shaken out of its proper setting. We lie down in each other. We lie down alone […]
  • Red and Blue Planets, by Joni Wallace (12/20/2015) - What we’re drawn to is proof enough: these pills, other acts of disappearance. I’ve written a song about a girl who swallowed the blue planets: Kevlar, Caroline, O Beautiful Bomb. So perfectly haplessly cruel the world we’ve made. Let’s meet back here in 5 minutes, you say, you always say. I’ll bring the Lite-Brite. I’ll […]

  • Red Shoes, by Honor Moore (8/26/2012) - all that autumn you step from the train as if something were burning something is burning running across the green grass bare feet that day death was only what we lose in fall comes back in spring something is burning from the train you climb smoke between the skyscrapers Paris was so beautiful, the sky— […]
  • Red String, by Minnie Bruce Pratt (3/22/2014) - At first she thought the lump in the road was clay thrown up by a trucker’s wheel. Then Beatrice saw the mess of feathers. Six or seven geese stood in the right-of-way, staring at the blood, their black heads rigid above white throats. Unmoved by passing wind or familiar violence, they fixed their gaze on […]
  • Redaction, by Carmen Giménez Smith (6/28/2015) - We make dogma out of letter writing: the apocryphal story of Lincoln who wrote angry letters he never sent. We wait for letters for days and days. Someone tells me I’ll write you a letter and I feel he’s saying you’re different than anyone else. Distance’s buzz gets louder and louder. It gets to be […]
  • Reflections on History in Missouri, by Constance Urdang (9/15/2015) - This old house lodges no ghosts! Those swaggering specters who found their way Across the Atlantic Were left behind With their old European grudges In the farmhouses of New England And Pennsylvania Like so much jettisoned baggage Too heavy To lug over the Piedmont. The flatlands are inhospitable To phantoms. Here Shadows are sharp and […]
  • Remarks on Poetry and the Physical World, by Mary Barnard (12/9/2015) - After reading Ash Wednesday she looked once at the baked beans and fled. Luncheonless, poor girl, she observed a kind of poetic Lent— and I had thought I liked poetry better than she did. I do. But to me its most endearing quality is its unsuitableness; and, conversely, the chief wonder in heaven (whither I […]
  • Reseda, by Paul Colinet (10/8/2015) - Step-ladder, tiny pyramid for miserly hunchbacks, near-  sighted reckoner, the reseda, gathered in its cunning  little cabin, breaks up, clears itself of perfume. This flower is the friend of silent eyes, of century-  old hands, of honest blades. She grows near modest shale-like clusters — these,  devout, dyed purple, or else those, burnt to brown  […]
  • Rest., by Richard Jones (12/24/2015) - It’s so late I could cut my lights and drive the next fifty miles of empty interstate by starlight, flying along in a dream, countryside alive with shapes and shadows, but exit ramps lined with eighteen wheelers and truckers sleeping in their cabs make me consider pulling into a rest stop and closing my eyes. […]
  • Retired Ballerinas, Central Park West, by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (9/19/2015) - Retired ballerinas on winter afternoons walking their dogs in Central Park West (or their cats on leashes— the cats themselves old highwire artists) The ballerinas leap and pirouette through Columbus Circle while winos on park benches (laid back like drunken Goudonovs) hear the taxis trumpet together like horsemen of the apocalypse in the dusk of […]
  • Rhapsody on a Windy Night, by T.S. Eliot (8/10/2012) - Twelve o’clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions. Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman […]
  • Rime Riche, by Monica Ferrell (5/30/2012) - You need me like ice needs the mountain On which it breeds. Like print needs the page. You move in me like the tongue in a mouth, Like wind in the leaves of summer trees, Gust-fists, hollow except for movement and desire Which is movement. You taste me the way the claws Of a pigeon […]
  • Road Tar, by Chase Twichell (7/30/2015) - A kid said you could chew road tar if you got it before it cooled, black globule with a just-forming skin. He said it was better than cigarettes. He said he had a taste for it. On the same road, a squirrel was doing the Watusi to free itself from its crushed hindquarters. A man […]
  • Rocket Fantastic [excerpt], by Gabrielle Calvocoressi (5/18/2015) - He’s really beautiful. When he’s standing in the trees like that and thinks nobody sees him. He’s like a stag. Which sounds silly but he is. The way the light shines on him. The way it bounces off his hair like spray from the sprinkler. And he doesn’t know it right then. Because he’s looking […]
  • Rocket, by Todd Boss (10/27/2015) - Despite that you wrote your name and number on its fuselage in magic marker neither your quiet hours at the kitchen table assembling it with glue nor your choice of paint and lacquer nor your seemingly equally perfect choice of a seemingly breezeless day for the launch of your ambition nor the thrill of its […]
  • Room in Antwerp, by Laure-Anne Bosselaar (8/5/2015) - Dust covers the window, but light slips through— it always does—through dust or cracks or under doors. Every day at dusk, the sun, through branches, hits a river’s bend & sends silver slivers to the walls. No one’s there to see this. No one. But it dances there anyway, that light, & when the wind […]
  • Room Tone, by Bill Berkson (2/19/2015) - Wrestling that old beauty “Body and Soul” To the ground The genus award for epochal comes besotted Complicity follows like caramel on a sponge mop Child-bearing babies on stilts I dreamed you were felled by an unspecified illness In yours I was rowing a leaky boat, even though The motor was foolproof and bore hairs […]
  • Ruin, by Seth Abramson (7/3/2012) - and backwards go the men into the garden, and what is it herding them but a haircut and a vacuous look they had when they were twenty, which earned its horns twice over if they had the same cut and look when they were thirty. Forget about great men, and soon the great forgetting will […]
  • S t r u c t u re — M a s o l i n o ‘ s E v e — T h e F e m a l e s n a k e, by ‘Annah Sobelman (7/2/2012) - : ~ a springy fire set inside pear prickles the vocative , a now bubble now that’s a thing your nervous system might have been one of the paths on the Tree on earth , oddly like as night where she was musing , under sap , blazed in here , hushed in under cover […]
  • Sailing to Byzantium, by W. B. Yeats (3/21/2015) - That is no country for old men. The young In one another’s arms, birds in the trees —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man […]
  • Sally’s Hair, by John Koethe (7/6/2015) - It’s like living in a light bulb, with the leaves Like filaments and the sky a shell of thin, transparent glass Enclosing the late heaven of a summer day, a canopy Of incandescent blue above the dappled sunlight golden on the grass. I took the train back from Poughkeepsie to New York And in the […]
  • Salmon, by Kim Addonizio (7/28/2015) - In this shallow creek they flop and writhe forward as the dead float back toward them. Oh, I know what I should say: fierce burning in the body as her eggs burst free, milky cloud of sperm as he quickens them. I should stand on the bridge with my camera, frame the white froth of […]
  • San Antonio, by Naomi Shihab Nye (5/21/2015) - Tonight I lingered over your name, the delicate assembly of vowels a voice inside my head. You were sleeping when I arrived. I stood by your bed and watched the sheets rise gently. I knew what slant of light would make you turn over. It was then I felt the highways slide out of my […]
  • Sapphic Fragment, by Eliza Griswold (4/27/2015) - I never longed for my virginity. I heard it on the radio after the hurricane. There, in the aftermath, was the voice of a man— once the sweet, screwed-up boy whose hooded, jessed spirit I tried to possess with the ruthlessness I mistook for power. Here he was on NPR, so gentle, so familiar with […]
  • Saw You There, by Ander Monson (4/18/2015) - “Carrie says I should make my connections into a poem.” —Dennis Etzel Jr. Sawed you there, through you there, girl whom I name Carrie, shine of sun on bonnet-handle at that Walgreens on 28th. A Friday night. It looked like you came straight from fighting something that looked like lightning. You were all scorched up. […]
  • Sawdust, by Sharon Bryan (6/17/2012) - Why not lindendust, hackberry, hemlock, live oak, maple, why name the remains after the blade, not what it cut— only now do I see that the air is full of small sharp stars pinwheeling through every living thing that gets in their way.
  • Séance at Tennis, by Dana Goodyear (7/15/2015) - I play with an old boyfriend, to tease you out. In white shorts that you’ve never seen before. You storm-wind, panic in the tree. Rattling like the genius like the jealous man. Making it impossible to hit. So nothing clears the net. An inside joke, my comingback love: He can’t return, but you can? After […]
  • Science, by Robert Kelly (2/25/2012) - Science explains nothing but holds all together as many things as it can count science is a basket not a religion he said a cat as big as a cat the moon the size of the moon science is the same as poetry only it uses the wrong words.
  • Secret Last Year (A Calendar Twelve-tone) [4. April, maybe], by Adriano Spatola (4/4/2012) - The sun is made of many mysterious concepts cowardly resentments with listless rotation they say they don’t say but they demand attention something rotten a little enlarged or rosy a slight lividness applied to our pettiness with light brush strokes exhausted by the heat I speak of the heat that spoils and enthuses of this […]
  • Semele Recycled, by Carolyn Kizer (8/6/2015) - After you left me forever, I was broken into pieces, and all the pieces flung into the river. Then the legs crawled ashore and aimlessly wandered the dusty cow-track. They became, for a while, a simple roadside shrine: A tiny table set up between the thighs held a dusty candle, weed-and-fieldflower chains placed reverently there […]
  • Sentimental Atom Smasher, by Darcie Dennigan (3/14/2014) - So this guy walks into a bar and asks for a beer. Sorry, the bartender says, I only sell atom smashers And the guy says well isn't that America for you— every happy-hour Nelson's a homemade physicist and no thank you, just an ice cold one, but it's too late—suddenly, he's on his butt in […]
  • Sequestered Writing, by Carolyn Forché (9/5/2012) - Horses were turned loose in the child’s sorrow. Black and roan, cantering through snow. The way light fills the hand with light, November with graves, infancy with white. White. Given lilacs, lilacs disappear. Then low voices rising in walls. The way they withdrew from the child’s body and spoke as if it were not there. […]
  • Severance Songs, 2.1, by Joshua Corey (7/25/2012) - 2.1 Many tiers make this world pillowed on stone many collect in their fear to strive. Yours the face aglow in the cold, precarious thriver in the song-stung dark. With glance and lip you collected me. Where are you? Alien hip I catch you out, refuse cheshire blazon, unpronounced tremolo. Now to step into the […]
  • Sex with a Famous Poet, by Denise Duhamel (7/13/2015) - I had sex with a famous poet last night and when I rolled over and found myself beside him I shuddered because I was married to someone else, because I wasn’t supposed to have been drinking, because I was in fancy hotel room I didn’t recognize. I would have told you right off this was […]
  • Shaking the Grass, by Janice N. Harrington (12/17/2015) - Evening, and all my ghosts come back to me like red banty hens to catalpa limbs and chicken-wired hutches, clucking, clucking, and falling, at last, into their head-under-wing sleep. I think about the field of grass I lay in once, between Omaha and Lincoln. It was summer, I think. The air smelled green, and wands […]
  • Shawl, by Albert Goldbarth (11/5/2015) - Eight hours by bus, and night was on them. He could see himself now in the window, see his head there with the country running through it like a long thought made of steel and wheat. Darkness outside; darkness in the bus—as if the sea were dark and the belly of the whale were dark […]
  • Short Burst on Ames, Iowa, by Ander Monson (7/20/2015) - Ames, Iowa, just west of the city. Y Avenue south of Lincoln Way, where it crosses over US-30, nighttime, summer, faint smell of at least two kinds of manure, overpass. There is very little traffic. You are alone. A woman whom you do not know yet that you love has just left and, not satisfied […]
  • Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah, by Patricia Smith (5/23/2015) - My mother scraped the name Patricia Ann from the ruins of her discarded Delta, thinking it would offer me shield and shelter, that leering men would skulk away at the slap of it. Her hands on the hips of Alabama, she went for flat and functional, then siphoned each syllable of drama, repeatedly crushing it […]
  • Silt, by Stephen Burt (10/11/2015) - Things you know but can’t say, the sort of things, or propositions that build up week after week at the end of the day, & have to be dredged by the practical operators so that their grosser cargo & barges & boxy schedules can stay. The great shovels and beaks and the rolling gantries of […]
  • Six Words, by Lloyd Schwartz (4/12/2015) - yes no maybe sometimes always never Never? Yes. Always? No. Sometimes? Maybe— maybe never sometimes. Yes— no always: always maybe. No— never yes. Sometimes, sometimes (always) yes. Maybe never . . . No, no— sometimes. Never. Always? Maybe. Yes— yes no maybe sometimes always never.
  • Skylab, by Rolf Jacobsen (11/14/2015) - We’ve come so far, thought the astronaut as he swam around the capsule in his third week and by accident kicked a god in the eye —so far that there’s no difference anymore between up and down, north and south, heavy and light. And how, then, can we know righteousness. So far. And weightless, in […]
  • Slanting Light, by Arthur Sze (6/18/2015) - Slanting light casts onto a stucco wall the shadows of upwardly zigzagging plum branches. I can see the thinning of branches to the very twig. I have to sift what you say, what she thinks, what he believes is genetic strength, what they agree is inevitable. I have to sift this quirky and lashing stillness […]
  • Sleet, by Alan Shapiro (4/11/2012) - What was it like before the doctor got there? Till then, we were in the back seat of the warm dark bubble of the old Buick. We were where we'd never not been, no matter where we were. And when the doctor got there? Everything outside was in a rage of wind and sleet, we […]
  • Slide, by Kate Colby (3/11/2015) - You and I inhabit thresholds, clinging to neither here nor there, and to and: this is a threshold of no relief, of interrogative light and obviated shadows, of questions flattened between clapboard slides, in laboratories of hanging frames—in a potential frame, the next moment slumps beneath the shadow of the overhang. They call it earthquake […]
  • Slow Waltz Through Inflatable Landscape, by Christian Hawkey (5/20/2012) - At the time of his seeing a hole opened—a pocket opened— and left a space. A string of numbers plummeted through it. They were cold numbers. They were pearls. And though they were cold the light they cast was warm, and though they were pearls he thought they were eyes. They blinked. He blinked back. […]
  • Slowly in Prayer, by Matthew Lippman (6/5/2015) - To be thankful for the Starbucks lady, Lucy, who is pissed at me for asking too many questions about my damn phone app is one thing. To be thankful for my wife plastering my face to the bathroom floor with pancake batter for missing the bus is another thing. I tried to be thankful for […]
  • Small Song, by A. R. Ammons (1/31/2012) - The reeds give way to the wind and give the wind away
  • Small Talk, by Eleanor Lerman (4/3/2015) - It is a mild day in the suburbs Windy, a little gray. If there is sunlight, it enters through the kitchen window and spreads itself, thin as a napkin, beside the coffee cup, pie on a plate What am I describing? I am describing a dream in which nobody has died These are our mothers: […]
  • Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, by Anne Sexton (7/8/2015) - No matter what life you lead the virgin is a lovely number: cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper, arms and legs made of Limoges, lips like Vin Du Rhône, rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut. Open to say, Good Day Mama, and shut for the thrust of the unicorn. She is unsoiled. She […]
  • Solitaire, by Sam Riviere (8/22/2015) - I think I always liked the game because it sounded like my name combined with the concept of alone. (My name really does mean “alone” in Slovenian!) We don’t actually care if it’s true, but we want to know the person telling us is telling us the truth. Say his name is “Hank,” as in, […]
  • Sometimes Night is a Creek Too Wide to Leap, by Gail Martin (8/24/2015) - The sky wears black serge pants while hemming up another pair for tomorrow night. A bit shorter, but you won’t notice. Some nights the blue pill brings a dream where a young girl is trying not to cry in the sheep pasture, stuck where her brothers eyed the watery gap and mossy stones and sailed […]
  • somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond, by E. E. Cummings (3/5/2012) - somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring […]

  • Song for Future Books, by Joanna Fuhrman (3/1/2014) - The book is made of glass and I look through it and see more books. Many glass books. Is someone speaking? A muffled voice is telling me to make soup which I think means I am loved. What other kind of cup fills itself? Can there be a cup of cup? A cup of itself? […]
  • Sonnet 100, by Lord Brooke Fulke Greville (12/4/2015) - In night when colors all to black are cast, Distinction lost, or gone down with the light; The eye a watch to inward senses placed, Not seeing, yet still having powers of sight, Gives vain alarums to the inward sense, Where fear stirred up with witty tyranny, Confounds all powers, and thorough self-offense, Doth forge […]
  • Sonnet V, by Mahmoud Darwish (3/23/2012) - I touch you as a lonely violin touches the suburbs of the faraway place patiently the river asks for its share of the drizzle and, bit by bit, a tomorrow passing in poems approaches so I carry faraway’s land and it carries me on travel’s road On a mare made of your virtues, my soul […]
  • Sonnet [Nothing was ever what it claimed to be,], by Karen Volkman (4/8/2014) - Nothing was ever what it claimed to be, the earth, blue egg, in its seeping shell dispensing damage like a hollow hell inchling weeping for a minor sea ticking its tidelets, x and y and z. The blue beneficence we call and spell and call blue heaven, the whiteblue well of constant water, deepening a […]
  • Sorrow Home, by Margaret Walker (8/15/2015) - My roots are deep in southern life; deeper than John Brown or Nat Turner or Robert Lee. I was sired and weaned in a tropic world. The palm tree and banana leaf, mango and coconut, breadfruit and rubber trees know me. Warm skies and gulf blue streams are in my blood. I belong with the […]
  • Sound and Structure, by Barbara Guest (7/12/2015) - “Sound leads to structure.” Schönberg. On this dry prepared path walk heavy feet. This is not “dinner music.” This is a power structure. heavy as eyelids. Beams are laid. The master cuts music for the future. Sound lays the structure. Sound leaks into the future.
  • Speaking Is, by Cara Benson (11/9/2015) - A trapezoid. Piano keys fill soup bowls. The moon wreaks havoc on the dandy in a field of proclamations. A chamber pot. Walk-in closet rife with used jackhammers. I find a helmet by the washer-dryer for my free free-speech call. The power dips during dinner, sends every clock protesting. I am reminded I do not […]
  • Spellbound, by Sara Miller (12/12/2015) - Two women on a train sit beside me. I am young and the world is flying and I am watching. One of them is frosty. The other turns like a leaf to hand me something?— it looked for all the world like a page. I thought at the time that it needed me and I […]
  • Spent, by Mark Doty (8/13/2015) - Late August morning I go out to cut spent and faded hydrangeas—washed greens, russets, troubled little auras of sky as if these were the very silks of Versailles, mottled by rain and ruin then half-restored, after all this time… When I come back with my handful I realize I’ve accidentally locked the door, and can’t […]
  • Spiral, by Roddy Lumsden (10/21/2015) - These years lift over coldly now: Aprils and Augusts are gifted to ice, or sprawl into mid-summers or year ends—pillars of lesser standing. Still come no replies to boyish queries, how the belly sleeper buoys, begins again, becomes poor soul or bull of appetite; why when the pearls drop, no spool dares connect the ripples.
  • Stairway to Heaven, by Alison Hawthorne Deming (11/2/2015) - The queen grows fat beneath my house while drones infest the walls reconnaissance to feed her glut, wood ripped from studs and joists. I’ll pay to drill the slab and ruin her pestilential nest. How to find the song in this day’s summons? I’ve been accused of darkness by my inner light. My brother sits […]
  • Star Quilt, by Roberta J. Hill (6/12/2012) - These are notes to lightning in my bedroom. A star forged from linen thread and patches. Purple, yellow, red like diamond suckers, children of the star gleam on sweaty nights. The quilt unfolds against sheets, moving, warm clouds of Chinook. It covers my cuts, my red birch clusters under pine. Under it your mouth begins […]
  • Starlight, by William Meredith (4/2/2015) - Going abruptly into a starry night It is ignorance we blink from, dark, unhoused; There is a gaze of animal delight Before the human vision. Then, aroused To nebulous danger, we may look for easy stars, Orion and the Dipper; but they are not ours, These learned fields. Dark and ignorant, Unable to see here […]
  • State’s Attorney Fallas, by Edgar Lee Masters (8/7/2012) - I, the scourge-wielder, balance-wrecker, Smiter with whips and swords; I, hater of the breakers of the law; I, legalist, inexorable and bitter, Driving the jury to hang the madman, Barry Holden, Was made as one dead by light too bright for eyes, And woke to face a Truth with bloody brow: Steel forceps fumbled by […]
  • Still Another Day: I, by Pablo Neruda (11/25/2015) - translated by William O’Daly Today is that day, the day that carried a desperate light that since has died. Don’t let the squatters know: let’s keep it all between us, day, between your bell and my secret. Today is dead winter in the forgotten land that comes to visit me, with a cross on the […]
  • Stirred Up By Rain, by Chase Twichell (5/6/2015) - I fired up the mower although it was about to rain— a chill late September afternoon, wild flowers re-seeding themselves in the blue smoke of the gas-oil mix. To be attached to things is illusion, yet I’m attached to things. Cold, clouds, wind, color— the sky is what the brush-cutter wants to cut, but again […]
  • Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost (2/20/2015) - Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. […]
  • Strange Meeting, by Wilfred Owen (3/20/2014) - It seemed that out of the battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which Titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, […]
  • Streets, by Naomi Shihab Nye (5/25/2015) - A man leaves the world and the streets he lived on grow a little shorter. One more window dark in this city, the figs on his branches will soften for birds. If we stand quietly enough evenings there grows a whole company of us standing quietly together. overhead loud grackles are claiming their trees and […]
  • Study for Salome Dancing Before Herod, by Eric Pankey (11/18/2015) - In the movement toward disappearance, She is pulled by an undertow of ecstasy. She wakes in a room where she never fell asleep. A thousand starlings leaf-out a bare tree. She wakes in a dusky, tenebrous zone. Evening on the ridges and in the mountains, But light still spills on the valley floor. What transport […]
  • Study In Black, by Rickey Laurentiis (10/4/2015) - Tu Fu, "Thoughts While Traveling at Night" There’s a wind in the grass— Is there here a boat’s mast claiming my lonely night too? I see the stars can’t be called hanged, exactly, just hanging down, not over emptiness, but honest ground, the moon trying the black skin of this river, black corpse... But, even […]
  • Study In Orange And White, by Billy Collins (8/31/2015) - I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene, but I was still surprised when I found the painting of his mother at the Musée d’Orsay among all the colored dots and mobile brushstrokes of the French Impressionists. And I was surprised to notice after a few minutes of benign staring, how that […]
  • Success Comes to Cow Creek, by James Tate (4/4/2015) - I sit on the tracks, a hundred feet from earth, fifty from the water. Gerald is inching toward me as grim, slow, and determined as a season, because he has no trade and wants none. It’s been nine months since I last listened to his fate, but I know what he will say: he’s the […]
  • Suicide In The Trenches, by Siegfried Sassoon (5/31/2015) - I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark. In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. You smug-faced crowds […]
  • Suicide of a Moderate Dictator, by Elizabeth Bishop (5/5/2015) - This is a day when truths will out, perhaps; leak from the dangling telephone earphones sapping the festooned switchboards’ strength; fall from the windows, blow from off the sills, —the vague, slight unremarkable contents of emptying ash-trays; rub off on our fingers like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers, crocking the way the unfocused photographs of […]
  • Summer Solstice, by Stacie Cassarino (4/19/2015) - I wanted to see where beauty comes from without you in the world, hauling my heart across sixty acres of northeast meadow, my pockets filling with flowers. Then I remembered, it’s you I miss in the brightness and body of every living name: rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch. You are the green wonder of June, root […]
  • Sun and Shadow, by Oliver Wendell Holmes (4/8/2012) - As I look from the isle, o’er its billows of green, To the billows of foam-crested blue, Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen, Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue: Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray As the chaff in the stroke of the flail; Now white as the sea-gull, […]
  • Surveillance Notes, by Bill Manhire (9/3/2015) - In Sweden, they whispered all winter, counting the frozen minutes. In France, they branched out. Tips of experience. In England, they dreamed of Ireland. In Ireland they seemed to be lonely. Germany was Belgium then was Spain. Italy was something else again. Portugal, Portugal, Portugal: they said that a lot because they never went back. […]
  • Survey: Phototropes, by Eleni Sikélianòs (8/26/2015) - The snow falls, picks itself up, dusts itself off a sparrow flying like a leaf back up to its tree The future does a backbend toward you, it’s what you can almost see, scrimmed in the clouds which crowd the sky, elbowing, laughing After that I see space and its influence in a bucket of […]
  • Survivor Guilt, by Ron Padgett (3/12/2015) - It’s very easy to get. Just keep living and you’ll find yourself getting more and more of it. You can keep it or pass it on, but it’s a good idea to keep a small portion for those nights when you’re feeling so good you forget you’re human. Then drudge it up and float down […]
  • Tablets, by Dunya Mikhail (5/2/2015) - 1 She pressed her ear against the shell: she wanted to hear everything he never told her. 2 A single inch separates their two bodies facing one another in the picture: a framed smile buried beneath the rubble. 3 Whenever you throw stones into the sea it sends ripples through me. 4 My heart’s quite […]
  • Tang, by Bruce Cohen (4/14/2015) - If I do not witness these leaves turning orange, who will? I stir myself: I like to think Of myself as a reincarnated Poet from the Tang Dynasty, Dehydrated orange drink Astronauts gulped orbiting this planet That became a fun ‘60’s breakfast staple, The bitter tang of a car’s squealing tires as it peels out, […]
  • Tarantulas on the Lifebuoy, by Thomas Lux (11/23/2015) - For some semitropical reason when the rains fall relentlessly they fall into swimming pools, these otherwise bright and scary arachnids. They can swim a little, but not for long and they can’t climb the ladder out. They usually drown—but if you want their favor, if you believe there is justice, a reward for not loving […]
  • Tattoo Writing Poem, by Fawziyya Abu Khalid (8/16/2015) - Not with your tribe’s spears i write for they are dull but with my nails words without walls Sister, For you i have inscribed Love-songs weaving the sun’s rays to your latticed window. To tell me you accept The tribe’s traditions and prescriptions is a concession to being buried alive The noble inch or two […]
  • Te Deum, by Charles Reznikoff (7/22/2012) - Not because of victories I sing, having none, but for the common sunshine, the breeze, the largess of the spring. Not for victory but for the day’s work done as well as I was able; not for a seat upon the dais but at the common table.
  • Teaching the Ape to Write Poems, by James Tate (4/13/2014) - They didn’t have much trouble teaching the ape to write poems: first they strapped him into the chair, then tied the pencil around his hand (the paper had already been nailed down). Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder and whispered into his ear: “You look like a god sitting there. Why don’t you try […]
  • Telling, by Elisabeth Frost (10/11/2015) - They keep telling me why I do what I do. I do it so that one day someone will do for me what I’m doing for her. They’re saying, then, that my motivation is to be, down the line, the recipient of the doing. According to their logic, I buy her the Times and irises […]
  • Temper, by Beth Bachmann (8/1/2012) - Some things are damned to erupt like wildfire, windblown, like wild lupine, like wings, one after another leaving the stone-hole in the greenhouse glass. Peak bloom, a brood of blue before firebrand. And though it is late in the season, the bathers, also, obey. One after another, they breathe in and butterfly the surface: mimic […]
  • Thanks, by W. S. Merwin (6/25/2012) - Listen with the night falling we are saying thank you we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings we are running out of the glass rooms with our mouths full of food to look at the sky and say thank you we are standing by the water thanking it smiling by the […]
  • That Everything’s Inevitable , by Katy Lederer (3/13/2012) - That everything’s inevitable. That fate is whatever has already happened. The brain, which is as elemental, as sane, as the rest of the processing universe is. In this world, I am the surest thing. Scrunched-up arms, folded legs, lovely destitute eyes. Please insert your spare coins. I am filling them up. Please insert your spare […]
  • The Abduction, by Stanley Kunitz (4/21/2015) - Some things I do not profess to understand, perhaps not wanting to, including whatever it was they did with you or you with them that timeless summer day when you stumbled out of the wood, distracted, with your white blouse torn and a bloodstain on your skirt. “Do you believe?” you asked. Between us, through […]
  • The Aeneid, Book VI, [First, the sky and the earth], by Virgil (3/21/2014) -                                                            “First, the sky and the earth and the flowing fields of the sea, the shining orb of the moon and the Titan sun, the stars: an inner spirit feeds them, coursing through all their limbs, mind stirs the mass and their fusion brings the world to birth. From their union springs the human race and […]
  • The Allure of Forms, by Coral Bracho (8/18/2015) - translated by Mónica de la Torre Blissful dance. Scream of the shadows in light. Night that pours its animal shrill into the morning’s joy. There it ramifies, bursts, intertwines itself. It blossoms on its clearest edge. It’s the allure of forms in their steep nearness, their engulfed proximity. Rivers become entangled with, yet do not […]
  • The Author to Her Book, by Anne Bradstreet (4/25/2012) - Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad, exposed to public view, Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). At thy return my blushing […]
  • The Bean House, by John Koethe (4/1/2015) - . . . humming in the summer haze. Diane christened it the Bean House, Since everything in it came straight from an L.L. Bean Home catalog. It looks out upon two Meadows separated by a stand of trees, and at night, When the heat begins to dissipate and the stars Become visible in the uncontaminated […]
  • The Bear, by Galway Kinnell (6/25/2015) - 1 In late winter I sometimes glimpse bits of steam coming up from some fault in the old snow and bend close and see it is lung-colored and put down my nose and know the chilly, enduring odor of bear. 2 I take a wolf’s rib and whittle it sharp at both ends and coil […]
  • The Bistro Styx, by Rita Dove (5/20/2015) - She was thinner, with a mannered gauntness as she paused just inside the double glass doors to survey the room, silvery cape billowing dramatically behind her. What’s this, I thought, lifting a hand until she nodded and started across the parquet; that’s when I saw she was dressed all in gray, from a kittenish cashmere […]
  • The Blade of Nostalgia, by Chase Twichell (2/4/2012) - When fed into the crude, imaginary machine we call the memory, the brain’s hard pictures slide into the suggestive waters of the counterfeit. They come out glamorous and simplified, even the violent ones, even the ones that are snapshots of fear. Maybe those costumed, clung-to fragments are the first wedge nostalgia drives into our dreaming. […]
  • The Blue Cup, by Minnie Bruce Pratt (5/23/2015) - Through binoculars the spiral nebula was a smudged white thumbprint on the night sky. Stories said it was a mark left by the hand of Night, that old she, easily weaving the universe out of milky strings of chaos. Beatrice found creation more difficult. Tonight what she had was greasy water whirling in the bottom […]
  • The Book of a Thousand Eyes [A dream, still clinging like light to the dark, rounding], by Lyn Hejinian (5/16/2012) - A dream, still clinging like light to the dark, rounding The gap left by things which have already happened Leaving nothing in their place, may have nothing to do But that. Dreams are like ghosts achieving ghosts’ perennial goal Of revoking the sensation of repose. It’s terrible To think we write these things for them, […]

  • The Book of the Dead Man (Your Hands), by Marvin Bell (3/15/2012) - Live as if you were already dead. – Zen admonition 1. About the Dead Man and Your Hands Mornings, he keeps out the world awhile, the dead man. The dead man, without looking, believes what you said of the garden. He knows the color of a rose is the color of a rose is the […]
  • The Call, by C. Dale Young (5/3/2015) - in memoriam Cecil Young I am addicted to words, constantly ferret them away in anticipation. You cannot accuse me of not being prepared. I am ready for anything. I can create an image faster than just about anyone. And so, the crows blurring the tree line; the sky’s light dimming and shifting; the Pacific cold […]
  • The Carolina Wren, by Laura Donnelly (10/7/2015) - I noticed the mockingbirds first, not for their call but the broad white bands, like reverse mourning bands on gunmetal gray, exposed during flight then tucked into their chests. A thing seen once, then everywhere— the top of the gazebo, the little cracked statue, along the barbed fence. Noticed because I know first with my […]
  • The Changing Light, by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (3/3/2012) - The changing light at San Francisco is none of your East Coast light none of your pearly light of Paris The light of San Francisco is a sea light an island light And the light of fog blanketing the hills drifting in at night through the Golden Gate to lie on the city at dawn […]
  • The Cities Inside Us, by Alberto Ríos (2/22/2012) - We live in secret cities And we travel unmapped roads. We speak words between us that we recognize But which cannot be looked up. They are our words. They come from very far inside our mouths. You and I, we are the secret citizens of the city Inside us, and inside us There go all […]
  • The Clerk’s Tale, by Spencer Reece (9/18/2015) - I am thirty-three and working in an expensive clothier, selling suits to men I call “Sir.” These men are muscled, groomed and cropped— with wives and families that grow exponentially. Mostly I talk of rep ties and bow ties, of full-Windsor knots and half-Windsor knots, of tattersall, French cuff, and English spread collars, of foulards, […]
  • The Cloister, by William Matthews (6/23/2015) - The last light of a July evening drained into the streets below: My love and I had hard things to say and hear, and we sat over wine, faltering, picking our words carefully. The afternoon before I had lain across my bed and my cat leapt up to lie alongside me, purring and slowly growing […]
  • The Composition of the Text, by Adriano Spatola (7/13/2012) - 1 an adjective breathing the window open the insertion’s exact dimension in the rustling of pages or see maybe how the text uses the body see how the work is cosmic and biological and logical in nocturnal voices in auroral explosions in the croaking scratching scraping setting fire here under the soft sky sticking all […]
  • The Congressional Library [excerpt], by Amy Lowell (5/17/2012) - Where else in all America are we so symbolized As in this hall? White columns polished like glass, A dome and a dome, A balcony and a balcony, Stairs and the balustrades to them, Yellow marble and red slabs of it, All mounting, spearing, flying into color. Color round the dome and up to it, […]
  • The Coriolanus Effect, by Tim Wells (8/27/2015) - For Jack the Ripper walking tours Come ye learned, ye loquacious, ye lost. Walk a pentagram around ego, erudition, experience. Our shuls, mosques, and homes be yours. Our murdered laid bare, our slums still teem, our souls sold. As for us, we marvel as our own effluvia swirls widdershins.
  • The Culture of Glass, by Thylias Moss (6/24/2015) - Thanksgiving 2004: I’m thankful for Columbo’s eye, Peter Falk’s indivisible from the other’s vitreous dupe that he can pocket, rub into, off of, and shine the crystal eyeball after it subs in a game of table pool. Oh yeah! The future of fortunes is manufactured revelation of a snow globe: when the right someone gets […]
  • The Daffodils, by William Wordsworth (4/20/2012) - I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending […]
  • The dandelions in the moment and then, by CJ Evans (2/21/2015) - It is. And needles don’t fall; cones don’t fall. The soil keeps holding the grass seed and the dune sand beneath is still torn by thirsty, wooden hands. By bedrock is where will be my tenoned pine. And the grass seeds don’t split, their shoots don’t spill. The clouds remain, widely. That locked closet inside […]
  • The Dead, by Mina Loy (4/23/2015) - We have flowed out of ourselves Beginning on the outside That shrivable skin Where you leave off Of infinite elastic Walking the ceiling Our eyelashes polish stars Curled close in the youngest corpuscle Of a descendant We spit up our passions in our grand-dams Fixing the extension of your reactions Our shadow lengthens In your […]
  • The Difference between a Child and a Poem, by Michael Blumenthal (7/11/2012) - If you are terrified of your own death, and want to escape from it, you may want to write a poem, for the poem might carry your name into eternity, the poem may become immortal, beyond flesh and fashion, it may be read in a thousand years by someone as frightened of death as you […]
  • The Divine Image, by William Blake (8/27/2012) - To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love All pray in their distress; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is God, our father dear, And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is Man, his child and care. For Mercy has a human heart, Pity a human face, And Love, […]
  • The Dover Bitch, by Anthony Hecht (6/30/2015) - A Criticism of Life: for Andrews Wanning So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them, And he said to her, ‘Try to be true to me, And I’ll do the same for you, for things are bad All over, etc., etc.’ Well now, I knew this […]
  • The Dry Salvages, by T.S. Eliot (8/3/2012) - I   I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river Is a strong brown god – sullen, untamed and intractable, Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier; Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyer of commerce; Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges. The problem once solved, […]
  • The Eighties, by Brenda Hillman (8/1/2015) - An Essay A friend asks, “What was at stake for you in the Eighties?” She’s trying to figure out Bay Area Poetry. There was Reagan’s New Morning for America. Garfield dolls stuck to the backs of windshields with suction cups. At the beginning of the Eighties I was married & at the end i was […]
  • The Emergence of Memory, 1, by Laynie Browne (9/29/2015) - His unset eyes — containing water — become expression, or color. They cloud in changing — though the change is never marked, it may eventually be seen. The cloud is green His hand is light He watches this first finding — pulling a hand in and out of a living channel. His newness betokens him […]
  • The Emperor, by Matthew Rohrer (5/25/2012) - She sends me a text she’s coming home the train emerges from underground I light the fire under the pot, I pour her a glass of wine I fold a napkin under a little fork the wind blows the rain into the windows the emperor himself is not this happy
  • The Empty Dance Shoes, by Cornelius Eady (9/23/2015) - My friends, As it has been proven in the laboratory, An empty pair of dance shoes Will sit on the floor like a wart Until it is given a reason to move. Those of us who study inertia (Those of us covered with wild hair and sleep) Can state this without fear: The energy in […]
  • The End of Science Fiction, by Lisel Mueller (9/10/2015) - This is not fantasy, this is our life. We are the characters who have invaded the moon, who cannot stop their computers. We are the gods who can unmake the world in seven days. Both hands are stopped at noon. We are beginning to live forever, in lightweight, aluminum bodies with numbers stamped on our […]
  • The Everyday Enchantment of Music, by Mark Strand (8/4/2015) - A rough sound was polished until it became a smoother sound, which was polished until it became music. Then the music was polished until it became the memory of a night in Venice when tears of the sea fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was polished until it ceased to be and […]
  • The Face of All the World (Sonnet 7), by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (2/13/2012) - The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life […]
  • The Family Photograph, by Vona Groarke (8/25/2015) - In the window of the drawing-room there is a rush of white as you pass in which the figure of your husband is, for a moment, framed. He is watching you. His father will come, of course, and, although you had not planned it, his beard will offset your lace dress, and always it will […]
  • The Feeling of the World As a Bounded Whale Is the Mystical [The child affixes], by Darcie Dennigan (8/21/2012) - The child affixes one of her little pictures to my refrigerator. She asks, Can you detect the radiation? There is a house, one tree, and grass in dark slashes. A sun shining. Beneath, in her child letters, she has written Chernobyl. At kindergarten they must be having nuclear energy week. One could look at the […]
  • The Feeling of the World As a Bounded Whale Is the Mystical [The child affixes], by Darcie Dennigan (3/13/2014) - The child affixes one of her little pictures to my refrigerator. She asks, Can you detect the radiation? There is a house, one tree, and grass in dark slashes. A sun shining. Beneath, in her child letters, she has written Chernobyl. At kindergarten they must be having nuclear energy week. One could look at the […]
  • The Ferry, by Katia Kapovich (10/24/2015) - I’m jotting down these lines, having borrowed a pen from a waitress in this roadside restaurant. Three rusty pines prop up the sky in the windows. My soup gets cold, which implies I’ll eat it cold. Soon I too will leave a tip on the table, merge into the beehive of travelers and board one […]
  • The Forms Of Love, by George Oppen (2/16/2012) - Parked in the fields All night So many years ago, We saw A lake beside us When the moon rose. I remember Leaving that ancient car Together. I remember Standing in the white grass Beside it. We groped Our way together Downhill in the bright Incredible light Beginning to wonder Whether it could be lake […]
  • The Geese, by Hyam Plutzik (7/17/2015) - A miscellaneous screaming that comes from nowhere Raises the eyes at last to the moonward-flying Squadron of wild-geese arcing the spatial cold. Beyond the hunter’s gun or the will’s range They press southward, toward the secret marshes Where the appointed gunmen mark the crossing Of flight and moment. There is no force stronger (In the […]
  • The Ghazal of What Hurt, by Peter Cole (6/22/2015) - Pain froze you, for years-and fear-leaving scars. But now, as though miraculously, it seems, here you are walking easily across the ground, and into town as though you were floating on air, which in part you are, or riding a wave of what feels like the world’s good will- though helped along by something foreign […]
  • The Ghost Has No Home, by Jeff Clark (7/11/2015) - This morning in an alleyway I was startled by a face I seemed to recognize, in a dormer above a garage and so slunk up to him, who was ranting quietly, mauling the mind of some imagined ear out the pane as if maligned, or high, like one moony and almost witless in a poppy […]
  • The Horrid Voice of Science, by Vachel Lindsay (8/18/2012) - “There’s machinery in the butterfly; There’s a mainspring to the bee; There’s hydraulics to a daisy, And contraptions to a tree. “If we could see the birdie That makes the chirping sound With x-ray, scientific eyes, We could see the wheels go round.” And I hope all men Who think like this Will soon lie […]
  • The Hour and What Is Dead, by Li-Young Lee (11/24/2015) - Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking through bare rooms over my head, opening and closing doors. What could he be looking for in an empty house? What could he possibly need there in heaven? Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches? His love for me feels like spilled water running […]
  • The Junior High School Band Concert, by David Wagoner (7/16/2015) - When our semi-conductor Raised his baton, we sat there Gaping at Marche Militaire, Our mouth-opening number. It seemed faintly familiar (We’d rehearsed it all that winter), But we attacked in such a blur, No army anywhere On its stomach or all fours Could have squeezed through our crossfire. I played cornet, seventh chair, Out of […]
  • The Lamb, by Linda Gregg (9/12/2015) - It was a picture I had after the war. A bombed English church. I was too young to know the word English or war, but I knew the picture. The ruined city still seemed noble. The cathedral with its roof blown off was not less godly. The church was the same plus rain and sky. […]
  • The Land of Story-books, by Robert Louis Stevenson (7/28/2015) - At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. There, in the […]
  • The Language of the Birds, by Richard Siken (6/28/2015) - 1 A man saw a bird and found him beautiful. The bird had a song inside him, and feathers. Sometimes the man felt like the bird and sometimes the man felt like a stone—solid, inevitable—but mostly he felt like a bird, or that there was a bird inside him, or that something inside him was […]
  • The Last 4 Things [That hard thread], by Kate Greenstreet (7/7/2015) - That hard thread between us. Is it gold? Do I have to be so outshined by my curtain? Opened, especially by breaking. people who would die people who would almost die and who would be injured My dad was in the water. Across an unprecedented space. It would rain for days, they said he’d come […]
  • The Lemon Trees, by Eugenio Montale (6/23/2012) - Hear me a moment. Laureate poets seem to wander among plants no one knows: boxwood, acanthus, where nothing is alive to touch. I prefer small streets that falter into grassy ditches where a boy, searching in the sinking puddles, might capture a struggling eel. The little path that winds down along the slope plunges through […]
  • The Letter Scale, by Jacques Réda (9/21/2015) - One of the objects I’ve treasured most in my life Is this letter scale which, long ago, you gave me. I was an active correspondent at the time, Even sending lots of letters overseas. While still enjoying the pleasure of going to the post, I now had another: assessing exactly, in advance, At my counter, […]
  • The Libraries Didn’t Burn, by Elaine Equi (7/15/2012) - despite books kindled in electronic flames. The locket of bookish love still opens and shuts. But its words have migrated to a luminous elsewhere. Neither completely oral nor written — a somewhere in between. Then will oak, willow, birch, and olive poets return to their digital tribes — trees wander back to the forest?
  • The Light the Dead See, by Frank Stanford (9/16/2015) - There are many people who come back After the doctor has smoothed the sheet Around their body And left the room to make his call. They die but they live. They are called the dead who lived through their deaths, And among my people They are considered wise and honest. They float out of their […]
  • The Love-Hat Relationship, by Aaron Belz (6/8/2012) - I have been thinking about the love-hat relationship. It is the relationship based on love of one another’s hats. The problem with the love-hat relationship is that it is superficial. You don’t necessarily even know the other person. Also it is too dependent on whether the other person is even wearing the favored hat. We […]
  • The Luxury of Hesitation [excerpt from The Proof from Motion], by Keith Waldrop (7/31/2012) - things forgotten I could burn in hell forever set the glass down, our emotion’s moment eyes vs sunlight how removed here, from here towards the unfamiliar and frankincense forests against the discerning light everybody sudden frightful indeed, the sound of traffic and no appetite the crowd I would like to be beautiful when written
  • The Meaning of Zero: A Love Poem, by Amy Uyematsu (5/24/2012) - —Is where space ends called death or infinity? Pablo Neruda, The Book of Questions A mere eyelid’s distance between you and me. It took us a long time to discover the number zero. John’s brother is afraid to go outside. He claims he knows the meaning of zero. I want to kiss you. A mathematician […]
  • The Moment, by Marie Howe (5/10/2015) - Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment when,  nothing happens no what-have-I-to-do-today-list – maybe  half a moment the rush of traffic stops. The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be slows to silence, the white cotton curtains hanging still.
  • The more Alice reaches out, the more her dream-rushes, by Jenny Boully (8/13/2015) - disappear: one by one by one the darling scented rushes sink back into melt. In the dream stream, the boat glides past too quick, and there is no chance to gather the loveliest of the dream-rushes. No less satisfying was the old sheep: so many knitting needles, dozens and dozens all pierced into a ball […]
  • The More Loving One, by W. H. Auden (6/27/2015) - Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast. How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection […]

  • The New Higher, by John Ashbery (4/16/2015) - You meant more than life to me. I lived through you not knowing, not knowing I was living. I learned that you called for me. I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there. No one to appreciate me. The legality of it upset a chair. Many times to […]
  • The News from M—, by Lytton Smith (12/7/2015) - Here, where you all are, language is an accessory to bodies lying in the street, prone in government rooms, bloated in the waterways. Or language is an accessory to the refutation of bodies lying etc. This too will pass as search vessels in the delta pass for smuggling operations bringing illicit food to refugees being […]
  • The Ocean, by Nathaniel Hawthorne (11/17/2015) - The Ocean has its silent caves, Deep, quiet, and alone; Though there be fury on the waves, Beneath them there is none. The awful spirits of the deep Hold their communion there; And there are those for whom we weep, The young, the bright, the fair. Calmly the wearied seamen rest Beneath their own blue […]
  • The Origin of Order, by Pattiann Rogers (10/12/2015) - Stellar dust has settled. It is green underwater now in the leaves Of the yellow crowfoot. Its vacancies are gathered together Under pine litter as emerging flower of the pink arbutus. It has gained the power to make itself again In the bone-filled egg of osprey and teal. One could say this toothpick grasshopper Is […]
  • The Paper Nautilus, by Marianne Moore (8/9/2015) - For authorities whose hopes are shaped by mercenaries? Writers entrapped by teatime fame and by commuters’ comforts? Not for these the paper nautilus constructs her thin glass shell. Giving her perishable souvenir of hope, a dull white outside and smooth- edged inner surface glossy as the sea, the watchful maker of it guards it day […]
  • The Parallel Cathedral, by Tom Sleigh (5/25/2015) - 1 The cathedral being built around our split level house was so airy, it stretched so high it was like a cloud of granite and marble light the house rose up inside. At the time I didn’t notice masons laying courses of stone ascending, flying buttresses pushing back forces that would have crushed our flimsy […]
  • The Part of the Bee’s Body Embedded in the Flesh, by Carol Frost (7/14/2015) - The bee-boy, merops apiaster, on sultry thundery days filled his bosom between his coarse shirt and his skin with bees—his every meal wild honey. He had no apprehension of their stings or didn’t mind and gave himself—his palate, the soft tissues of his throat— what Rubens gave to the sun’s illumination stealing his fingers across […]
  • The Poem as Mask, by Muriel Rukeyser (4/1/2014) - Orpheus When I wrote of the women in their dances and wildness, it was a mask, on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy, it was a mask; when I wrote of the god, fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone down with song, it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile […]
  • The Pomegranate, by Eavan Boland (5/24/2015) - The only legend I have ever loved is the story of a daughter lost in hell. And found and rescued there. Love and blackmail are the gist of it. Ceres and Persephone the names. And the best thing about the legend is I can enter it anywhere. And have. As a child in exile in […]
  • The Practice, by Aaron Shurin (7/29/2012) - They mistook me for illumination — a revenant in walking shoes — so I gathered significance and spread text…stood beneath the seven cardinal points with arms upraised — practical telepathy — in a white paper suit like a flag of surrender, thunder at my back… I was an open man of the open streets — […]
  • The Problem of Hands, by Louise Mathias (8/8/2015) - And how to fill them is the problem of cigarettes and paint. First time I felt my undoing was in front of a painting—Sam Francis, I believe. Oh, his bloomed out, Xanax-ed California. I liked the word guard, but you know we made each other nervous, standing too close for everyone concerned. All art being […]
  • The Purpose of Ritual, by Melissa Broder (3/2/2015) - When you fled I disappeared into the abscesses of my brain. We are both impulsive humans and perhaps my disappearance was premature. To reappear I had to grow younger. I began consuming images of boys at a very rapid speed, never their bodies just reflections. I distorted all the mirrors in mucus, oil and blood. […]
  • The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe (6/13/2012) - Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door— “‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and […]
  • The Real Enough World, by Karen Brennan (7/8/2015) - Spider City After a while I dreamt about                  the Spider City& when I woke up in my                  flannel pj’sthe curtain flapped open                  & the sky greeted me. Hello Karen, Hello Little Bee,         it said which is whenI remembered the strange         webbed sky of the SpiderCity & your face in the         middle saying Kiss Me. Breathless […]
  • The Remarkable Objectivity of Your Old Friends, by Liam Rector (8/10/2015) - We did right by your death and went out, Right away, to a public place to drink, To be with each other, to face it. We called other friends—the ones Your mother hadn’t called—and told them What you had decided, and some said What you did was right; it was the thing You wanted and […]
  • The Republic of Dreams, by Michael Palmer (7/3/2015) - She lay so still that as she spoke a spider spun a seamless web upon her body as we spoke and then her limbs came loose one by one and so my own
  • The Rising of the Ashes [Before], by Tahar Ben Jelloun (5/9/2012) - Before a long time ago I lived in a tree, then in a cemetery. My tomb was under an oak. Dogs and men pissed on my head. I said nothing. Little mauve flowers, scentless, grew there. I had nothing to say. Today shovels picked me up and threw me in this well. I pace the […]
  • The River Now, by Richard Hugo (9/27/2015) - Hardly a ghost left to talk with. The slavs moved on or changed their names to something green. Greeks gave up old dishes and slid into repose. Runs of salmon thin and thin until a ripple in October might mean carp. Huge mills bang and smoke. Day hangs thick with commerce and my favorite home, […]
  • The Room In Which My First Child Slept, by Eavan Boland (5/15/2015) - After a while I thought of it this way: It was a town underneath a mountain crowned by snow and every year a river rushed through, enveloping the dusk in a noise everyone knew signaled spring— a small town, known for a kind of calico, made there, strong and unglazed, a makeshift of cotton in […]
  • The Secret, by Denise Levertov (4/2/2012) - Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry. I who don’t know the secret wrote the line. They told me (through a third person) they had found it but not what it was not even what line it was. No doubt by now, more than a week later, they have […]
  • The Snowfall Is So Silent, by Miguel de Unamuno (5/1/2012) - The snowfall is so silent, so slow, bit by bit, with delicacy it settles down on the earth and covers over the fields. The silent snow comes down white and weightless; snowfall makes no noise, falls as forgetting falls, flake after flake. It covers the fields gently while frost attacks them with its sudden flashes […]
  • The Split Ends of My Beard Have Split Ends, by Justin Marks (6/3/2015) - My natural instincts are hardly ever right. When I sleep there is a voice in my ear coming through a cheerleader’s megaphone in a really bizarre language. I understand fully. The world is out the window. When we wake on the weekends and my wife wants sex, I say, the furniture is feline, let’s just […]
  • The Star, by Jane Taylor (10/2/2015) - Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky. When the blazing sun is set, And the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. Then the traveler in the dark Thanks you for […]
  • The Storm, by Theodore Roethke (4/10/2012) - 1 Against the stone breakwater, Only an ominous lapping, While the wind whines overhead, Coming down from the mountain, Whistling between the arbors, the winding terraces; A thin whine of wires, a rattling and flapping of leaves, And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming against the lamp pole. Where have the people gone? There is […]
  • The Strange Hours Travelers Keep, by August Kleinzahler (6/13/2015) - The markets never rest Always they are somewhere in agitation Pork bellies, titanium, winter wheat Electromagnetic ether peppered with photons Treasure spewing from Unisys A-15 J mainframes Across the firmament Soundlessly among the thunderheads and passenger jets As they make their nightlong journeys Across the oceans and steppes Nebulae, incandescent frog spawn of information Trembling […]
  • The Subject of Retreat, by Yona Harvey (3/7/2015) - Your black coat is a door in the storm. The snow we don’t mention clings to your boots & powders & puffs. & poof. Goes. Dust of the fallen. Right here at home. The ache of someone gone-missing. Walk it off like a misspoken word. Mound of snow. Closed door. I could open it. Or […]
  • the suicide kid, by Charles Bukowski (6/27/2012) - I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed. but all I could do was to get drunk again. worse, the bar patrons even ended up liking me. there I was trying to get pushed over the dark edge and I ended up with free drinks while somewhere else some poor son-of-a-bitch was […]
  • The Thousand Somethings of Someone, by Forrest Gander (4/7/2014) - Could have been otherwise and birdsong make us nauseous. And gigantic roiling sunsets give us vertigo. The world of flowers is for insects, not us. But tonic is durance among.  
  • The Threat, by Denise Duhamel (6/24/2012) - my mother pushed my sister out of the apartment door with an empty suitcase because she kept threatening to run away  my sister was sick of me getting the best of everything  the bathrobe with the pink stripes instead of the red  the soft middle piece of bread while she got the crust  I was […]
  • The Triumph of Time, by Algernon Charles Swinburne (6/9/2012) - Before our lives divide for ever, While time is with us and hands are free, (Time, swift to fasten and swift to sever Hand from hand, as we stand by the sea) I will say no word that a man might say Whose whole life’s love goes down in a day; For this could never […]
  • The Truth, by Carl Phillips (3/29/2015) - And now, the horse is entering the sea, and the sea holds it. Where are we? Behind us, the beach, yes, its scrim, yes, of grass, dune, sky—Desire goes by, and though it’s wind of course making the grass bend, unbend, we say it’s desire again, passing us by, souveniring us with gospel the grass, […]
  • The Unforgiven, by Russell Edson (11/27/2015) - After a series of indiscretions a man stumbled homeward, thinking, now that I am going down from my misbehavior I am to be forgiven, because how I acted was not the true self, which I am now returning to. And I am not to be blamed for the past, because I’m to be seen as […]
  • The Uses of Distortion, by Caroline Crumpacker (7/28/2012) - (appendix to the     forgotten                                   ) See character         see costume               see ambassador conjugate of toreador: Country of origin     see that night I fell in love (wrong man). Race and ethnicity   see mauve suite for women. see   my boss is the mouth of god. I went to another country as an ambassador, she begins, and there I […]
  • The Vacant Lot at the End of the Street, by Debora Greger (4/19/2015) - in memory of Margaret Greger, 1923-2009   I. Death Takes a Holiday Battleships melted down into clouds: first the empire died, then the shipbuilding, but cloud formations of gun-metal gray ruled over the sea that was England in June. A scarecrow treaded water instead of barley, gulls set sail across a cricket ground. In a […]
  • The Vampyre, by John Stagg (7/29/2015) - “Why looks my lord so deadly pale? Why fades the crimson from his cheek? What can my dearest husband ail? Thy heartfelt cares, O Herman, speak! “Why, at the silent hour of rest, Dost thou in sleep so sadly mourn? Has tho’ with heaviest grief oppress’d, Griefs too distressful to be borne. “Why heaves thy […]
  • The Very Nervous Family, by Sabrina Orah Mark (5/16/2015) - Mr. Horowitz clutches a bag of dried apricots to his chest. Although the sun is shining, there will probably be a storm. Electricity will be lost. Possibly forever. When this happens the very nervous family will be the last to starve. Because of the apricots. “Unless,” says Mrs. Horowitz, “the authorities confiscate the apricots.” Mr. […]
  • The White Room, by Charles Simic (9/2/2012) - The obvious is difficult To prove. Many prefer The hidden. I did, too. I listened to the trees.   They had a secret Which they were about to Make known to me– And then didn’t.   Summer came. Each tree On my street had its own Scheherazade. My nights Were a part of their wild […]
  • The White Rose, by John Boyle O’Reilly (2/15/2012) - The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; O, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on […]
  • The Witch-Bride, by William Allingham (7/25/2015) - A fair witch crept to a young man’s side, And he kiss’d her and took her for his bride. But a Shape came in at the dead of night, And fill’d the room with snowy light. And he saw how in his arms there lay A thing more frightful than mouth may say. And he […]
  • The Woman and the Flame, by Aimé Césaire (12/10/2015) - translated by Clayton Eshleman A bit of light that descends the springhead of a gaze twin shadow of the eyelash and the rainbow on a face and round about who goes there angelically ambling Woman the current weather the current weather matters little to me my life is always ahead of a hurricane you are […]
  • The World Is Too Much With Us, by William Wordsworth (3/3/2015) - The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are […]
  • The Writer, by Richard Wilbur (2/17/2012) - In her room at the prow of the house Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden, My daughter is writing a story. I pause in the stairwell, hearing From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys Like a chain hauled over a gunwale. Young as she is, the stuff Of her life […]
  • The Young Man’s Song, by W. B. Yeats (6/28/2012) - I whispered, “I am too young,” And then, “I am old enough”; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. “Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair,” Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair. Oh, […]
  • Their Story, by Stuart Dybek (10/16/2015) - They were nearing the end of their story. The fire was dying, like the fire in the story. Each page turned was torn and fed to flames, until word by word the book burned down to an unmade bed of ash. Wet kindling from an orchard of wooden spoons, snow stewing, same old wind on […]
  • Then And Now, by Tom Clark (10/23/2015) - Then it was always for now, later for later. And then years of now passed, and it grew later and later. Trapped in the shrinking chocolate box the confused sardine was unhappy. It leapt, and banged its head again. And afterward they said shall we repeat the experiment. And it said later for that.
  • Theories of Time and Space, by Natasha Trethewey (10/6/2015) - You can get there from here, though there’s no going home. Everywhere you go will be somewhere you’ve never been. Try this: head south on Mississippi 49, one— by—one mile markers ticking off another minute of your life. Follow this to its natural conclusion—dead end at the coast, the pier at Gulfport where riggings of […]
  • There are these moments of permission, by Camille T. Dungy (4/14/2012) - Between raindrops, space, certainly, but we call it all rain. I hang in the undrenched intervals, while Callie is sleeping, my old self necessary and imperceptible as air.
  • They Romp with Wooly Canines, by Patricia Smith (6/7/2015) - and spy whole lifetimes on the undersides of leaves. Jazz intrudes, stank clogging that neat procession of lush and flutter. His eyes, siphoned and dimming, demand that he accept ardor as it is presented, with its tear-splashed borders and stilted lists, romance that is only on the agenda because hours do not stop. Bless his […]
  • Things Between Themselves, by Heidi Lynn Staples (4/9/2014) - …to have been things among things between themselves and all others who live… …to travel widely beyond the seas… …to arrive one half king, one half informer… …to appear o how atrocious soever… …to present all the disabilities… …to demonstrate an investment in kin… …to show an interest real or personal in this… …to uncover […]
  • Things I Found and Left Where They Were, by Robert Gregory (8/2/2015) - A slow summer morning: new light through a veil of green leaves, young leaves that vibrate and tremble. The shadows are blurred in this light — shadows once ourselves, they say. Clouds and a girl in green trousers, three birds on the blacktop confer, between two buildings a vacant lot, a concrete slab for some […]

  • Thinking in Bed, by Dennis Lee (9/28/2012) - I’m thinking in bed, Cause I can’t get out Till I learn how to think What I’m thinking about; What I’m thinking about Is a person to be– A sort of a person Who feels like me. I might still be Alice, Excepting I’m not. And Snoopy is super, But not when it’s hot; I […]
  • Thinking of Work, by James Shea (4/5/2012) - A brief storm blew the earth clean. There was much to do: sun to put up, clouds to put out, blue to install, limbs to remove, grass to implant. (The grass failed. We ordered new grass.) A limb had cracked in half in the short storm, short with its feeling. We saw its innards, all […]
  • Thirst, by Laura Cronk (7/27/2015) - Unclouded third eye and lush red wings. I’m pouring water from cup to cup. This is the water we are meant to drink with the other animals. There are daffodils by the water, a road leading from the water to the shining crown of the sun. My white hospital gown— off-the-rack and totally sane. My […]
  • Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird, by Wallace Stevens (9/5/2015) - 1 Among twenty snowy mountains The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird 2 I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. 3 The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. 4 A man and a woman Are one. A […]
  • This City, by Liam Rector (8/20/2012) - for Bertolt Brecht This apartment with no furniture, where no one puts anything up, where everyone schemes to get out. This mess, to the right and the left of me, that equation of garbage wherein matter moves its way, the magazine sector in glanced-at demise. This price, and that mind, and nothing to say but […]
  • This, Here, by Kush Thompson (8/30/2015) - This, we tiptoe. This, we flower in euphemism. The street has swallowed itself into border. Into railroad track. This, where the bus line ends. This, where little boys bike across curfew and into eulogy. This, where board-slapped windows domino into mansions. Runaway men into joggers. This, where Oak Park River Forest alumni rep westside, Redlands […]
  • Those Graves in Rome, by Larry Levis (6/20/2015) - There are places where the eye can starve, But not here. Here, for example, is The Piazza Navona, & here is his narrow room Overlooking the Steps & the crowds of sunbathing Tourists. And here is the Protestant Cemetery Where Keats & Joseph Severn join hands Forever under a little shawl of grass And where […]
  • Three Seasons, by Geoffrey G. O’Brien (8/9/2012) - The winter, it was the winter all the usual things happened, I have forgotten what would travel from the north as a series seen from above or from below, and the followers, the flowers, I tore them up the next summer, or rather before or immediately after and thought no more about it. But then […]
  • To be the thing, by Dorothea Lasky (4/4/2014) - To be the name uttered, but not to have the burden to be To be the name said, but not heard To not breathe anymore, to be the thing To be the thing being breathed To not be about to die, to be already dead To not have to disappoint To not have the burden […]
  • to have been, instead, by Stephen Motika (11/29/2015) - instead, insulted. to look, in green light. redact. can you read… the oracular, such indifference. failing in the halls of an unknown. to have powered down. mission. some sort of cavalcade, plane flight caucus to indifference. a mission, museum, the night in the unknown. a city. raked forest leaves, consorted with compost fires, down in […]
  • To My Mother Waiting on 10/01/54, by Teresa Carson (10/1/2015) - That October might have begun pretty much like this one. Last night, first chilly night, we shut all the windows, the cat curled between John’s legs, I slept with a blanket over my head. At six a.m., wrapped in a sweater, I checked the newly dug beds of bulbs—tulips, your favorite— and wondered if they, […]
  • To My Oldest Friend, Whose Silence Is Like a Death, by Lloyd Schwartz (6/21/2015) - In today’s paper, a story about our high school drama teacher evicted from his Carnegie Hall rooftop apartment made me ache to call you—the only person I know who’d still remember his talent, his good looks, his self- absorption. We’d laugh (at what haven’t we laughed?), then not laugh, wondering what became of him. But […]
  • To The One Upstairs, by Charles Simic (5/20/2015) - Boss of all bosses of the universe. Mr. know-it-all, wheeler-dealer, wire-puller, And whatever else you’re good at. Go ahead, shuffle your zeros tonight. Dip in ink the comets’ tails. Staple the night with starlight. You’d be better off reading coffee dregs, Thumbing the pages of the Farmer’s Almanac. But no! You love to put on […]
  • To the Reader: If You Asked Me, by Chase Twichell (9/15/2012) - I want you with me, and yet you are the end of my privacy. Do you see how these rooms have become public? How we glance to see if– who? Who did you imagine? Surely we’re not here alone, you and I. I’ve been wandering where the cold tracks of language collapse into cinders, unburnable […]
  • To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time, by Robert Herrick (5/3/2012) - Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth […]
  • To Those Of You Alive In The Future, by Dean Young (5/14/2015) - who somehow have found a sip of water, on this day in the past four syndicated series involving communication with the dead were televised and in this way we resembled our own ghosts in a world made brief with flowers. To you, our agonies and tizzies must appear quaint as the stiff shoulders of someone […]
  • To You, by Walt Whitman (3/10/2012) - Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams, I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands, Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you, Your true soul and body appear before me, They stand forth out […]
  • Touching the Floor, by Max Ritvo (10/29/2015) - I touch my palms to the floor and granite rhinos surge up my arms and lock in my shoulders. Water flecks on my back and my head is shaved by bladed cream. But then my time in my body is up and it’s time for my mind: It seeks wisdom and the rhinos fall into […]
  • Train to Agra, by Vandana Khanna (8/20/2015) - I want to reach you— in that city where the snow only shimmers silver for a few hours. It has taken seventeen years. This trip, these characters patterned in black ink, curves catching on the page like hinges, this weave of letters fraying like the lines on my palm, all broken paths. Outside, no snow. […]
  • Trapeze, by Deborah Digges (8/2/2012) - See how the first dark takes the city in its arms and carries it into what yesterday we called the future.   O, the dying are such acrobats. Here you must take a boat from one day to the next,   or clutch the girders of the bridge, hand over hand. But they are sailing […]
  • Triolet, by Robert Bridges (9/20/2015) - When first we met, we did not guess That Love would prove so hard a master; Of more than common friendliness When first we met we did not guess. Who could foretell the sore distress, This irretrievable disaster, When first we met?—We did not guess That Love would prove so hard a master.
  • Two Nudes, by Mary Jo Bang (7/11/2015) - I was working in a bookstore and as an antidote to the twin torment of exhaustion and boredom, one day I went with a friend on a walking tour. We made it as far as Berlin and there I met the man I would move with to a boarding house, then to furnished rooms in […]
  • Undressing You, by Witter Bynner (9/15/2015) - Fiercely I remove from you All the little vestiges— Garments that confine you, Things that touch the flesh, The wool and the silk And the linen that entwine you, Tear them all away from you, Bare you from the mesh. And now I have you as you are, Nothing to encumber you— But now I […]
  • Unfinished Poem, by Shirley Kaufman (10/31/2015) - We live on a holy mountain where the crows and the Crown Plaza rise higher than our expectations and the golden dome is only a restored reflection of the absolute. All night the bodies of prophets break out of the clouds calling, “Doom, doom.” Like the carp we bring home from the market, our lives […]
  • Unfolded Out of the Folds, by Walt Whitman (12/21/2015) - Unfolded out of the folds of the woman, man comes unfolded, and is always to come unfolded; Unfolded only out of the superbest woman of the earth, is to come the superbest man of the earth; Unfolded out of the friendliest woman, is to come the friendliest man; Unfolded only out of the perfect body […]
  • Unhappy Hour, by Richard Siken (11/19/2015) - Going to a party where I knew you’d be, dudes bobbing for boyfriends, eyes shining like candy apples. I want to be a lamppost, or the history of plumbing. I am tired of being mysterious. You are drinking rum next to the laughing skullheads and I am unhappy because I am dead and I miss […]
  • Unpacking a Globe, by Arthur Sze (5/14/2015) - I gaze at the Pacific and don’t expect to ever see the heads on Easter Island, though I guess at sunlight rippling the yellow grasses sloping to shore; yesterday a doe ate grass in the orchard: it lifted its ears and stopped eating when it sensed us watching from a glass hallway—in his sleep, a […]
  • Untitled [1950 June 27], by Don Mee Choi (4/26/2015) - 1950 June 27: my father heard the sound of the engine of a North Korean fighter plane, Yak-9. Foremostly and therefore barely consequently in the highest manner, he followed the sound, running towards the city hall. After all it was hardly war. Yak-9, made in Russia, flew over the plaza of the city hall. Then […]
  • Untitled [A house just like his mother’s], by Gregory Orr (6/5/2012) - A house just like his mother’s, But made of words. Everything he could remember Inside it: Parrots and a bowl Of peaches, and the bright rug His grandmother wove. Shadows also—mysteries And secrets. Corridors Only ghosts patrol. And did I mention Strawberry jam and toast? Did I mention That everyone he loved Lives there now, […]
  • Untitled [and the moon once it stopped was sleeping], by Erika Meitner (3/16/2012) - and the moon         once it stopped         was sleeping in the cold blue light          and the moon          while the wind snapped vinyl siding apart          slipped around corners          whipped the neighbors’ carefully patterned bunchgrass          our snow-filled vegetable boxes the house unjoining              the moon       our yard strips          covered with hollow shells          of hard remnants               ice      and my son’s breath contiguous               static          a shard of green light          on the monitor wavers with coughs                     the Baptist church                     in […]
  • Untitled [The child thought it strange], by Richard Meier (3/31/2012) - The child thought it strange to define words with other words. What did you draw? The man thought he was looking at a purple oval with a touch of yellow. I drew that, the child answered ecstatically, feeling the paper with his finger. The frost is a little behind the shadows. A slash of tree […]
  • Untitled, by David Meltzer (8/11/2012) - Art’s desire to get it all said to all who thought him dead in the joint & beside the point Art’s struggle to sing it all through jazz warfare & tell everything he knew in brass speed rap stir crazy utopia of muscle chops push it in your face rough unrelenting grace fierce Art pitbull […]
  • Untranslatable Song, by Claudia Reder (3/11/2012) - “Everyone needs one untranslatable song.” —Juarroz On hearing the striped contralto of guinea fowl, its mock opera quivers the parsley atop its head— The song makes its imprint in the air, making itself felt, a felt world. Here, there, the stunned silence of knowing I will not remember what I heard; futures that will never […]
  • Vague Cadence, by Geoffrey G. O’Brien (8/13/2012) - An away of practice the other is Like a river out of acts the other is Hapless, unheard, with marks upon him Having dallied in tarrying unwisely Backlit at an undecidable remove In a house of marks the other is Useless deciding whether to go Or wait in best practices like a child A hapless […]
  • valentine for Sally Hemings, by Sojourner Ahebee (5/15/2015) - there’s a dead jefferson in every black girl’s belly, an unknown hunger for something stolen. i found a poem in these parts, in the belly of a black girl. i was told to look in the garage, into the person i almost liked, at the bottom of an odd blue sock buried in my dresser […]
  • Venice, Unaccompanied, by Monica Youn (12/14/2015) - Waking on the train, I thought we were attacked by light: chrome-winged birds hatching from the lagoon. That first day the buoys were all that made the harbor bearable: pennies sewn into a hemline. Later I learned to live in it, to walk through the alien city— a beekeeper's habit— with fierce light clinging to […]
  • Verguenza, by Rachel Eliza Griffiths (7/3/2015) - Woman, I wish I didn’t know your name. What could you be? Silence in my house & the front yard where the dogwood wouldn’t make up its mind about flowers. Aren’t you Nature? A stem cringing, half- shadowed beneath a torque of rain. I too am leaving. I too am half-spun. The other day near […]
  • Vertical, by Linda Pastan (9/26/2015) - Perhaps the purpose of leaves is to conceal the verticality of trees which we notice in December as if for the first time: row after row of dark forms yearning upwards. And since we will be horizontal ourselves for so long, let us now honor the gods of the vertical: stalks of wheat which to […]
  • Vespers, by Louise Glück (9/10/2012) - In your extended absence, you permit me use of earth, anticipating some return on investment. I must report failure in my assignment, principally regarding the tomato plants. I think I should not be encouraged to grow tomatoes. Or, if I am, you should withhold the heavy rains, the cold nights that come so often here, […]
  • Veterans of Foreign Wars, by Edward Hirsch (10/27/2015) - Let’s not forget the General Shuffling out in his gray slippers To feed the pigeons in Logan Square. He wore a battered White Sox cap And a heavy woolen scarf tossed Over his shoulder, even in summer. I remember how he muttered to himself And coughed into his newspaper And complained about his gout To […]
  • Vigo Martin, by Victor Hernández Cruz (7/16/2015) - In a city that now floats in a bottle, In a dimension outside of the census, within walls that were unregistered, there was a painter, Who performed his roll like the Taino cave etchers, the pyramid illustrators of Mexico, the scribblers of hieroglyphs. Vigo painted the hallways of the tenements, While through the air he […]
  • VII. Man in the Street, by Muriel Spark (11/16/2015) - Last thing at night and only one Man in the street, And even he was gone complete Into an absence as he stood Beside the lamplight longitude. He stood so long and still, it would Take men in longer streets to find What this was chewing in his mind.
  • Vision, by Erica Funkhouser (8/25/2015) - With age mirage assuages what the youthful eye would have studied until identified— chicory? bluebird? debris? Today no nomenclature ruptures the composure of a chalk-blue haze pausing, even dawdling, now and then trembling over what I’m going to call fresh water.
  • Visions of Never Being Heard from Again, by Rebecca Wolff (3/7/2012) - I stopped by to see you but you were not home marshland the pure vision my ancient lives all risen up and rising shudder in my bed to come up against a living religion; they get offended so easily; blow up your hundred-foot Buddha no problem. Entire mountainside. Presumably it’s an improvement on whatever came […]
  • Vocabulary, by Jason Schneiderman (3/3/2014) - I used to love words, but not looking them up. Now I love both, the knowing, and the looking up, the absurdity of discovering that “boreal” has been meaning “northern” all this time or that “estrus” is a much better word for the times when I would most likely have said, “in heat.” When I […]
  • Vodka, by Joel Brouwer (6/11/2015) - The Stoli bottle’s frost melts to brilliance where I press my fingers. Evidence. Proof I’m here, drunk in your lamplit kitchen, breathing up your rented air, no intention of leaving. Our lust squats blunt as a brick on the table between us. We’re low on vocabulary. We’re vodkaquiet. Vodkadeliquescent. Vodka doesn’t like theatrics: it walks […]
  • Void and Compensation (Karaoke Genesis), by Michael Morse (7/31/2015) - Since when did keeping things to ourselves help us to better remember them? We need tutorials from predecessors. To restore what’s missing makes a science of equating like with like, or touching small pebbles on a larger mental abacus. We hitch a memory of order to ourselves: From rotating bodies in space comes wind, by […]
  • Waiting for Rain, by Ellen Bass (3/23/2014) - Finally, morning. This loneliness feels more ordinary in the light, more like my face in the mirror. My daughter in the ER again. Something she ate? Some freshener   someone spritzed in the air? They’re trying to kill me, she says, as though it’s a joke. Lucretius got me through the night. He told me […]
  • Waiting On The Reading, by Samiya Bashir (8/31/2015) - Many of my race have lived long without the touch of these fine things which separate us from beasts. Things I call my own now. Having served thirty-six years as needleman for a family far more ape than we will ever be, I rode the moonlight train to find my free. Up here it is […]
  • Want, by Rusty Morrison (12/17/2015) - crowded Monday subway its mindlessness botanical you take the first seat claim it for your age your figural effaced your t-shirt smelling already like somebody else's sweat a toddler is crashing against your leg his mom gives him a sucker he hasn't figured out how to fit inside his mouth you taste the instant's sumptuous […]

  • War Widow, by Chris Abani (9/11/2015) - The telephone never rings. Still you pick it up, smile into the static, the breath of those you’ve loved; long dead. The leaf you pick from the fall rises and dips away with every ridge. Fingers stiff from time, you trace. Staring off into a distance limned by cataracts and other collected debris, you have […]
  • Warning, by Jenny Joseph (10/1/2015) - When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired And gobble up […]
  • We Are Seven, by William Wordsworth (7/24/2015) - —A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she […]
  • Weaving, by Paul Otremba (12/16/2015) - I don’t think they’ll find the new weaving anywhere finer than truth. —Osip Mandelstam I’ve tried to sift a truth finer than salt from my mouth. It matters: I get up or I do not. The books can wait, leaves burn themselves these days, and the day begins or it does not. Now wingless, a […]
  • What the Angels Left, by Marie Howe (8/1/2015) - At first, the scissors seemed perfectly harmless. They lay on the kitchen table in the blue light. Then I began to notice them all over the house, at night in the pantry, or filling up bowls in the cellar where there should have been apples. They appeared under rugs, lumpy places where one would usually […]
  • What The Bones Know, by Carolyn Kizer (9/24/2015) - Remembering the past And gloating at it now, I know the frozen brow And shaking sides of lust Will dog me at my death To catch my ghostly breath. I think that Yeats was right, That lust and love are one. The body of this night May beggar me to death, But we are not […]
  • What Was Told, That, by Jalal al-Din Rumi (7/19/2012) - What was said to the rose that made it open was said to me here in my chest. What was told the cypress that made it strong and straight, what was whispered the jasmine so it is what it is, whatever made sugarcane sweet, whatever was said to the inhabitants of the town of Chigil […]
  • What’s Left (Al-Mutanabbi Street), by Katrina Roberts (4/21/2015) - Tracery Not nostalgia but the bluer salt of longing, not sentiment but the smutted sky raining bitter sediment, not our winding blunder down into that wound, not the ash-riddled grotto nor the blood-orange blown-open Not the mineral rash’s voice dubbed across the final unspooling reel, not that, whatever promise the book held, not what she […]
  • When Ecstasy is Inconvenient, by Lorine Niedecker (4/8/2015) - Feign a great calm; all gay transport soon ends. Chant: who knows— flight’s end or flight’s beginning for the resting gull? Heart, be still. Say there is money but it rusted; say the time of moon is not right for escape. It’s the color in the lower sky too broadly suffused, or the wind in […]
  • White Shells, by Kathleen Peirce (10/9/2015) - Then there was beauty in what clung, vertical and multiple against a damp tombstone where no one goes, or has gone forever, the stone carved in another language and the weed-life overgrown. We knew they must know movement, but they would not move while being what they meant to us. Where the headstone’s windowpane meant […]
  • White Trees, by Nathalie Handal (11/11/2015) - When the white trees are no longer in sight they are telling us something, like the body that undresses when someone is around, like the woman who wants to read what her nude curves are trying to say, of what it was to be together, lips on lips but it’s over now, the town we […]
  • Who Shall Doubt, by George Oppen (2/12/2012) - consciousness in itself of itself carrying 'the principle of the actual' being actual itself ((but maybe this is a love poem Mary) ) nevertheless neither the power of the self nor the racing car nor the lilly is sweet but this
  • Why I Am Not a Painter, by Frank O’Hara (3/25/2012) - I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. “Sit down and have a drink” he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. “You have SARDINES in it.” “Yes, […]
  • Why is the Color of Snow?, by Brenda Shaughnessy (5/11/2012) - Let’s ask a poet with no way of knowing. Someone who can give us an answer, another duplicity to help double the world. What kind of poetry is all question, anyway? Each question leads to an iceburn, a snownova, a single bed spinning in space. Poet, Decide! I am lonely with questions. What is snow? […]
  • Why It Often Rains in the Movies, by Lawrence Raab (12/4/2015) - Because so much consequential thinking happens in the rain. A steady mist to recall departures, a bitter downpour for betrayal. As if the first thing a man wants to do when he learns his wife is sleeping with his best friend, and has been for years, the very first thing is not to make a […]
  • Why Latin Should Still Be Taught in High School, by Christopher Bursk (3/26/2012) - Because one day I grew so bored with Lucretius, I fell in love with the one object that seemed to be stationary, the sleeping kid two rows up, the appealing squalor of his drooping socks. While the author of De Rerum Natura was making fun of those who fear the steep way and lose the truth, I was […]
  • William Dawes, by Eileen Myles (5/12/2015) - faint tinkling down the street moved me from Swan to Mass Ave the skinny men running into Boston. Why I don’t know. Let’s go to town hall giant horses Paul Revere & William Dawes and horses hairy poop lands splat on the brick. Get em to sign your program. It’s not even really Paul Revere […]
  • Windy City, by Stuart Dybek (9/13/2015) - The garments worn in flying dreams were fashioned there— overcoats that swooped like kites, scarves streaming like vapor trails, gowns ballooning into spinnakers. In a city like that one might sail through life led by a runaway hat. The young scattered in whatever directions their wild hair pointed, and gusting into one another, fell in […]
  • Winter Heavens, by George Meredith (3/18/2012) - Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive Leap off the rim of earth across the dome. It is a night to make the heavens our home More than the nest whereto apace we strive. Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive, In swarms outrushing from the golden comb. They waken waves […]
  • Winter Letter, by Huu Thinh (6/17/2015) - The letter I wrote you had smeared ink, But the bamboo walls are thin, and fog kept leaking through. On this cold mountain, I cannot sleep at night. By morning, a reed stalk can fade. White snow on my thin blanket. The stove glows red for lunch, but the mountain remains hazy. Ink freezes inside […]
  • With All Due Respect [excerpt], by Vincent Aleixandre (6/26/2015) - Trees, women and children are all the same thing: Background. Voices, affections, brightness, joy, this knowledge that finally here we all are. Indeed. Me and my ten fingers. Now the sun isn’t horrendous like a cheek that’s ready: it isn’t a piece of clothing or a speechless flashlight. Nor is it the answer heard by […]
  • Without You, by Adrian Henri (4/7/2012) - Without you every morning would feel like going back to work after a holiday, Without you I couldn’t stand the smell of the East Lancs Road, Without you ghost ferries would cross the Mersey manned by skeleton crews, Without you I’d probably feel happy and have more money and time and nothing to do with […]
  • Woods in Winter, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (3/25/2015) - When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O’er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak, The […]
  • World’s Bliss, by Alice Notley (3/22/2015) - The men & women sang & played they sleep by singing, what shall I say of the most poignant on earth the most glamorous loneliest sought after people those poets wholly beautiful desolate aureate, death is a powerful instinctive emotion— but who would be released from a silver skeleton? gems & drinking cups—This skull is […]
  • Worst Things First, by Mark Bibbins (3/19/2014) - A bag of thank-you notes fell on me and that was enough art for one day. Culturally speaking, it was more like a year in the floral trenches, kicked off with a single boneless kiss. Poor sad demon in his poor dead tree— or is it he who pities me, cockshy quasihero with a latex […]
  • XIII, by César Vallejo (7/10/2015) - I think about your sex. My heart simplified, I think about your sex, before the ripe daughterloin of day. I touch the bud of joy, it is in season. And an ancient sentiment dies degenerated into brains. I think about your sex, furrow more prolific and harmonious than the belly of the Shadow, though Death […]
  • Yellow Stars and Ice, by Susan Stewart (6/20/2012) - I am as far as the deepest sky between clouds and you are as far as the deepest root and wound, and I am as far as a train at evening, as far as a whistle you can’t hear or remember. You are as far as an unimagined animal who, frightened by everything, never appears. […]
  • You Are Not a Statue, by Mark Yakich (7/12/2015) - And I am not a pedestal. We are not a handful of harmless scratches on pale pink canvas. Today is not the day to stop looking for the woman to save you. What was once ivory is wood. What was once whalebone is cotton. My coif and corset are duly fastened, and your shirttail is […]
  • You Begin, by Margaret Atwood (3/27/2012) - You begin this way: this is your hand, this is your eye, that is a fish, blue and flat on the paper, almost the shape of an eye. This is your mouth, this is an O or a moon, whichever you like. This is yellow. Outside the window is the rain, green because it is […]
  • Your Brain Is Yours, by Natalie Lyalin (8/16/2012) - I am baptized by coins with a faint smell of elderflower. I transfigure, blink in one part of the house and then another. A holy night unfolds and stands weakly. A child chemist mixes a star in a test tube. Glass shatters lightly. I am a saint. I soothe with marmalade and tonic. I embroider […]
  • Zeus And Apollo, by David Rivard (9/9/2015) - Written on clapboard or asbestos siding, the cartoony spray-paint signatures of Apollo and Zeus, two home boys out bombing last night in thick fog. Fog near the shade of pearls. Except they didn’t see the mist that way, glad for their thin leather gloves. Wind raw at the wide avenue, so they cut from there […]
  • Zoom!, by Simon Armitage (11/21/2015) - It begins as a house, an end terrace in this case but it will not stop there. Soon it is an avenue which cambers arrogantly past the Mechanics' Institute, turns left at the main road without even looking and quickly it is a town with all four major clearing banks, a daily paper and a […]
  • [A black God touched me today…], by Jon Leon (9/6/2015) - A black God touched me today and I knew I was a poet. When I produce poetry I am responding to a God who touched me in a perverse way. The state of my text is an act of worship to a black female God that told me to worship capital. From a business perspective […]
  • [I’m not with my], by Joshua Beckman (4/28/2015) - I’m not with my blue toes or my doggies nor am I under any arched roof rotting blossoms in my drain, sunlight pouncing upon me, nor am I fixed like a tree, nor am I unfixed like a wind. I ate an apple, that’s fine and after Anthony left I got a whiskey. I stared […]
  • [Persian Letters], by Solmaz Sharif (6/8/2015) - Dear Aleph, Like Ovid: I’ll have no last words. This is what it means to die among barbarians. Bar bar bar was how the Greeks heard our speech— sheep, beasts—and so we became barbarians. We make them reveal the brutes they are, Aleph, by the things we make them name. David, they tell me, is […]
  • [Untitled], by J. Michael Martinez (8/14/2012) - Imagine—in front of us—they silently pass. And they believe unrelated objects are machines for recognizing the human. And, again, we are no longer interruptions. Imagine—in front of us—the beginning is not a study. And they believe the cicada’s larva reveals narrow secrets. And we accompany: to form, to shape. Imagine—in front of us—a beautiful garden. […]
  • [white spring], by Lisa Olstein (3/23/2015) - I am working on a specimen so pale it is like staring at snow from the bow of a ship in fog. I lose track of things—articulation of wing, fineness of hair—as if the moth itself disappears, but remains as an emptiness before me. Or, from its bleakness, the subtlest distinctions suddenly increase: the slightest […]
  • |admin| Quick Announcement (3/31/2015) - admin: I’m thinking about posting two poems a day (one in the morning, one in the evening) through the month of April, and maybe past April if it works out alright. I just really want you guys to let me know if you have any problems with that, because I don’t want anyone to feel like […]

















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