Siegfried Sassoon: ‘The Hero’
The cruelty in this poem is overwhelming – as Sassoon intended. So opposed was he to jingoistic propaganda, he deliberately slashed very tender imagery with the sharpest irony.
Jose Padua: Directions in Music and Other Ways of Approaching the Day
what he wants to do
sounds better than
what I want to do
we sit in the car
and listen
until the song is over
Yana Djin: “Doctorow” by Dmitry Melnikoff
Doctorow comes out onto the dark shore,
holding a hand over his worn-out heart
Michael T. Young: Sitting in the Dark
On the day another black man is shot
I sit with my family watching sparrows
pick through soil warmed in sunlight.
Rachel Hadas: The Mothers on the Wall
Young men stamping; clouds of dust their feet
Stir up; the gleaming weapons and the heat –
the women, poised and fearful, gazing down
as the squadron marches out of town
Paul Christensen: Rainy and Cold Today
The soul is hungry in spring, and there is only the crisp, silent air to feed it.
Lisel Mueller: Alive Together
Speaking of marvels, I am alive
together with you, when I might have been
alive with anyone under the sun
Jason Irwin: A Stillness Nearly Mineral | The poetry of Robert Gibb
A stillness which is very nearly mineral
Keeps insisting upon the essential
Loneliness with which this light is filled.
George Drew: Early Morning at the West Side Y
My God! The man with long white hair
waiting for an elevator on the thirteenth floor
is Edgar Winter, blear-eyed from a night
spent raising the roof at the Fillmore East.
Susan Kelly-DeWitt: Angel Behind Bars
It was hard to tell if they were raising or lowering it
into or out of the Parisian light.
Jose Padua: Union Square
their crazy dad, his singular
song, with the only people putting money
in his cup looking as crazy as he did
Rita Sims Quillen: Sugar-n-Spice, Etc.
Once we sneaked out of a slumber party
tiptoed onto an icy bridge
still in our babydoll pajamas and
froze our prissy asses off
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Clouds Heave
His cat mourned better than I, lying
on her side for weeks across his room’s threshold
Molly Fisk: How to Stop
It depends on the way you were broken:
Body from soul? Mind from memory?
