Kathryn Levy: The Gaza Poems
Death to the Arabs—death
to the children, who keep
crouching in the cupboards.
Sara Teasdale: There Will Come Soft Rains
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white
Rebecca Gordon: Nowhere to Run
Where Will the World Find Refuge in 2024?
Edwin Arlington Robinson: Richard Cory
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
Gary Fincke: Scattering
From six to ten pounds, our cremains
Will weigh, the visible fragments
White or gray, the largest pieces
Ground to sand-size for discretion
And the ease of our scattering.
Majid Naficy: Ezzat’s Last Will & A Memory of Ezzat
I want only to say that life’s beauties are never forgettable.
Lisa Zimmerman: Loft
She returns as a red-winged blackbird or maybe
all three blackbirds swinging now on the feeder
James Crews: At the Monastery
I want to ask: Would you bow
to the blown-open peony, its petals
strewn like slips of silk in the grass
after last night’s storm?
Rachel Hadas: Ghost Guest
I sometimes think I recognize the face
of my own death. Knowing it is nearer
makes me feel it ought to be familiar,
a neutral guest I’ve seen somewhere before.
Video: The Affected
Passengers and crew on a commercial flight question their ethics when an attempt to stop a deportation occurs on their flight minutes before take-off.
Michael Simms: Against Prayer
Okay,
God of crib death
and dirty needles,
of heroin and fentanyl,
God of twisted steel
burning beside the road
Jean Toomer: Banking Coal
Somehow the fire was furnaced,
And then the time was ripe for some to say,
“Right banking of the furnace saves the coal.”
I’ve seen them set to work, each in his way
Paul Christensen: Chapped Lips
Silence is winter’s sonata, a moody, tuneless trill of wind and creaking branches, and the muffled voice of a crow trying to call out through the blur of snowfall.
Abe Louise Young: New Seeds for Old Stories
When I was a child, everything I heard & read about Israel was aspirational. We saved our quarters in cardboard boxes emblazoned, “Plant Trees In Israel!” People said, “Next year in Jerusalem!” to mean goodbye, to celebrate New Year’s Eve.
