Michael T. Young: How to Read a Poem
The experience of reading a poem should not start in the meaning first, but in the feelings it evokes just hearing those words, in the images, and rhythms carrying you along, much like a good song.
David Kirby: The Way I See It
I wonder if our bosses have any idea how much time we spend
thinking about them. My friend Silvia can’t sleep because
she can’t remember the name of her boss from twenty years ago.
Ma Yongbo: A Dream at the Beginning of Winter (English & Chinese)
The broad leaves of the sycamore tree fall onto the small car,
once all the leaves have fallen, the car’s colour turns white,
receiving signals from the stars of the departed
Sean Sexton: Elysium
I am ready, like Basho — to turn away
from beauty today as he once refused to
consider Mt Fuji, stark in the distance,
one more time — not to be bothered by
the ineluctable.
Diane Wakoski: Braised Leeks & Framboise
The Saturnian taste
of old raspberries, and the moon’s
clear-fingered insistence
of leek. These two intangible things
I owe you
Naomi Shihab Nye: Every day as a wide field, every page
And there were so many more poems to read!
Countless friends to listen to.
We didn’t have to be in the same room—
the great modern magic.
David Kirby: Significant Pieces of Information
Did you know monkeys peel bananas from the bottom up?
Ever try it that way? It’s easier. Monkeys know this.
People know it, too, or at least they do now, but
they don’t do it. People tend to be set in their ways
Ron Smith: Berlioz
“I was finishing
my cantata when the revolution broke out …
dashed off the final pages … to the sound of
stray bullets coming over the roofs and pattering
on the wall outside my window….”
Alison Hurwitz: My Son Runs Out of Time
Inside his syncopated thinking, there is only now:
a sound, and he’s a fox kit caught in sudden shift, head cocked,
one paw lifted from the leaves.
Jane Kenyon: The Beaver Pool in December
The beavers thrive somewhere
else, eating the bark of hoarded
saplings. How they struggled
to pull the long branches
over the stiffening bank…
Michael Simms: The Crows
We barely recognized ourselves
But the crows knew
Who we were and where we’d been
Why we returned
Philip Terman: Two Poems
our daughter
rubbing softly and deeply,
her knowing hands breathing
into the pain their love
Sharon Fagan McDermott: The Hat
That first day I noticed the handsome stranger, I was wearing a skirt and heels, walking delicately down the cracked sidewalks of Shady Avenue. This dressing-up for work was new to me.
Patricia Spears Jones: The Devil’s Wife looks at America to understand the necessity of wordsmiths
Yes, the Devil is making quite a mess of America,
and here I am swabbing yet another wound and offering up unanswered prayers.
Our names are on fire.
