Paul Christensen: The Bluest Sky
He knew the rotting nature of poverty and the dull, disintegrating poison of lost hope. He had some of the dark anger of Walt Whitman, who could charm a winter tree back into bloom with his dreams and turn on his heels and find despair tearing at the entrails of the ordinary man.
Majid Naficy: Seven Poems During Trump
You are that apple worm which overnight
Grew into a bloodthirsty dragon
Like Haftvad’s worm in the “Ardashir Chronicles”.
Richard Levine: One Night in America
The first time I noticed my hands
trembling, I was still a young man,
just returned from a war…
Kathleen O’Toole: For Such a Time as This
The poet’s ability to inhabit the events, and actors, with King himself center stage, contribute to the power of this collection. Moreover, the questions these poems raise could not be more timely.
Deborah Bogen: Bashō
Sweet friend, hear me. There will always be trouble.
Denise Levertov: Clouds
as if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling
Stephen Dobyns: Wisdom
With the door shut the child sat in the closet
with his fingers pressed in his ears. Tell me
the truth, wasn’t it wisdom? Hadn’t he had
a sudden insight into the nature of the world?
Judith Alexander Brice: My Papa’s Music
We weren’t a talking family
especially when it came
to discussing why I locked myself
in the bathroom upstairs
Doug Anderson: People Lived Here
I love to break into abandoned houses
in spite of the cover-your-ass no trespassing signs.
Christine Rhein: The President’s Clothes
the drape made to cover any backside,
the pleats to hide extra-
deep pockets. Of course, you can take it
to the bank.
Video: Maurice
Everything would be fine. Maurice had made up his mind. Pick a date, announce his retirement, sell the car, see old friends, and empty the garage. Then, die with dignity.
Edith Matilda Thomas: Winter Sleep
I know it must be winter (though I sleep)—
I know it must be winter, for I dream
I dip my bare feet in the running stream,
And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep.
Michael Simms: The Dark
The park ranger herded us down
the chained path sloping into the earth
until we came to a cathedral
where columns of rock caught the light
and shimmered.
Kathleen O’Toole: Witness (revised version)
How do we, who commemorate Evers and King
and Birmingham, reckon the escalating tally
of unarmed black men and boys, gunned down
by cops and armed civilians?
