Judith Sanders: Late to Meet You at the Indian Restaurant
So I drove, and listened to the news, about
the demise of democracy and collapse of civilization
head-beams probing the dark like outstretched hands.
Stephen Dobyns: Persephone, Etc.
Wasn’t it beneath this spot the son of Kronos
pursued his inamorata, holding out a handful
of shining seeds?
Ellery Akers: We Have the Power to Pull Back from the Brink
I call fire.
And fire answers with its flaming mouth
and strange whining pronunciation
as it clears the underbrush
Christine Rhein: Alphabetical Order
Assertion by committee:
double-dare ethos.
Fibbed goodwill,
handshakes.
Amy Lowell: The Blue Scarf
Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded
In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, it lies there,
Warm from a woman’s soft shoulders…
Sharon Fagan McDermott: Orchid Room, Phipps Conservatory
Grandma lived to be ninety-three
and wore the fabric of that tale to a soft sheen
with her retelling. Where does the past lie?
Jason Irwin: Smoke Rising
Back then to see dark clouds of smoke
rising above the housetops meant that God, in his wisdom and mercy,
was still on our side.
Peter Schireson: Good Morning
Across the street, Ginkgo
sway in the breeze
like a gospel choir.
Sandy Solomon: Amédé Ardoin
And now only his voice remains
as it cries through the needle scratch.
Across decades, that voice has entered
our voices: our style, our common despair.
Audio: The Ballad of Birmingham
At 10:22 a.m. on the morning of September 15, 1963, some 200 church members were in the building—many attending Sunday school classes before the start of the 11 am service—when the bomb detonated on the church’s east side, spraying mortar and bricks from the front of the church and caving in its interior walls.
Audio: WeWeWeWe The Remarkable (for Gwendolyn Brooks)
The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden Shovel.
Judith Sanders: The Farewell
“Picture a staircase,”
the hypnotist said.
“At the top, a door
will open
onto a landscape.”
Walter Bargen: Which brings us to one certainty. . .
can you tell me the colors
sweeping the sky this evening,
can you tell me exactly the volcanic-ash
effects, the drought and dust effects,
the shift of light along the spectrum
Yana Djin: Church Bell
A mere splinter I am,
a mere speck
without you
and your light.
