John Samuel Tieman: Self-portrait with folks in St. Louis
still I recall the rains in the islands
the cold in Mexico and how
I imagined my mother standing
on the porch looking south
Terry Blackhawk: Orchis Opens the Book
feel the earth whinny and stomp
David Huddle: Parable of the 4 a.m. Demons
My mind yearns for sleep so innocently it refuses
the perverse truth…
Seamus Heaney: Pangur Bán
Next thing an unwary mouse
Bares his flank: Pangur pounces.
Next thing lines that held and held
meaning back begin to yield.
Dawn Potter: Sonnet in Search of Poems I’ve Never Written
I’ve been meaning to write about a patch of mossy
frogs’ eggs in a vernal pool, about a single contrail
chalking a blue November sky…
Chard deNiord: The Music of Being
Hold a hazelnut up to your eyes
as a lens for seeing through,
then wake to a katydid and say its name.
Vox Populi: An Interview With Our Editor
On Friday, we caught up with poet, blogger, editor and activist Michael Simms at his kitchen table where he was preparing his Saturday morning post for Vox Populi.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Frost at Midnight
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch…
Connie Post: How to Sort the Living from the Dead
Forget all the nonsense
about eyes opened or closed
or breathing
or brain waves
Jose Padua: Self-Portrait as Human and as House
I can’t imagine how boring I’d be now
if I’d always been the best person
I could be instead of operating
at fifty percent of my capacity
or sometimes even less.
Sandra McPherson: Numbers 31
(in which Moses orders the rape
of 32,000 Midianite virgins)
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Stillbirth
I sometimes go months without remembering you.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.
Walt Whitman: When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake,
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.
Peter Makuck: Seniors
mocking with an ache
that comes with leafdrop, woodsmoke,
and those shots of bourbon that ease
not a thing
