Edna St. Vincent Millay: ‘She had a horror he would die at night’
She had a horror he would die at night.
And sometimes when the light began to fade
She could not keep from noticing how white
The birches looked and then she would be afraid
Thomas A. Thomas: While hearing the poet
when love was blue water in a green cathedral
under a new blue sky and the water fell from
cliff stone into sun-sparkled air
Charles Harper Webb: Department of Discontent
The officer in charge checks my ID. “Formal
or informal complaint?” she says. When I hesitate,
she says, “Informal’s more relaxed. You speak
more softly, don’t raise your blood pressure,
can wear jeans, no tie, use contractions and slang.
Carol Moldaw: Arthritis
“Save your hands,” my mother says,
seeing me untwist a jar’s tight cap—
just the way she used to tell me
not to let boys fool around
Rachel Trousdale & Charles W. Brice: Two Elegies for Renée Nicole Good
I think of long dead Germans caught in the Bardo.
Are they wagging their fingers at us?
Now you know what it felt like, they say
Penelope Moffet: Peace March
Carry your light out into the shitstorm,
Joan Baez writes, and what a swirl of turds
it is.
Louise Bogan: Cassandra
And madness chooses out my voice again,
Again. I am the chosen no hand saves…
Ron Smith: Cassandra
I called my friend, the journalist, right after
The vote was known. “You don’t understand.”
He told me, “This is reporter’s gold”—with laughter
To show contempt of the clown and his band
Of misfits and morons
Sally Bliumis-Dunn: The Cypress and the Stag
Now it all makes sense:
the roots of the cypress tree
to hold the boy’s sorrow in place
Announcing Zoom Launch for Baron Wormser’s new poetry collection!
Sign up for the Zoom book launch on Tuesday, January 13, 2026, (8 pm EST). We’ll be reading from James Baldwin Smoking a Cigarette.
Cesare Pavese: Landscape II
Starlight on the hill: the fields shine white and clear.
Up there, you couldn’t miss the thieves. Down here, in these ravines,
the vineyard is all darkness.
Audio: Danez Smith reads “not an elegy for Mike Brown”
I am sick of writing this poem
but bring the boy. his new name
his same old body. ordinary, black
dead thing. bring him & we will mourn
Valerie Bacharach: Barbara, I’m Sipping Coffee
My hands have morphed into my mother’s; arthritic knuckles, thin skin, and yesterday I
discovered her Mah Jong set dumped in a guest closet
