Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Stephen Dobyns: Stories

All stories, as they reach their end, are sad.
The rain comes; the night falls; Malone dies alone.

January 12, 2020 · 4 Comments

Joan E. Bauer: Brilliant Modernist, Armored Life

Afraid of heights, she stood on ledges.
To onlookers, she’d say:
Buddy, I’m not a nice girl. I’m a photographer.
I go anywhere.

January 11, 2020 · 2 Comments

Robert Frost: Storm Fear

I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length…

January 10, 2020 · Leave a comment

Sandy Solomon: On “Adlestrop”

“Adlestrop” is a poem which, though written in a time of war, takes place during that last, long, beautiful Edwardian summer. The speaker is describing a prewar train journey in full consciousness of the disruption that is soon to follow.

January 10, 2020 · 1 Comment

Majid Naficy: I Have Become a Resting Place

And my mother, who at her death
Called out to her sister Ozra,
Has not yet let go of
My own sister’s hand.

January 9, 2020 · 1 Comment

Ellen Foos: Support-Group Puppets

We speak in circles,
Sock-monkeys one and all,
able to say what we are told.

January 8, 2020 · 2 Comments

Baruch November: St. Louis Park, M.N.

they would ask how it felt
“to be a kike, to taste a baby’s
blood, to kill a savior?”

January 7, 2020 · Leave a comment

Sarah Gordon: Threshold

You see them there
their arms weary with
holding the guns
withholding their fire
You see them in the light

January 6, 2020 · 1 Comment

Michael Simms: The Story of Autumn House Press (1998-2020)

Most literary presses fade away when the founder leaves, so I cannot tell you how much it thrills me that AHP continues into the second generation.

January 5, 2020 · 8 Comments

Jo McDougall: What We Need

Lola the Lion Tamer and the Great Valdini
in Nikes and jeans
sharing a tired cigarette

January 5, 2020 · 2 Comments

Edna St. Vincent Millay: Dirge without Music

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind…

January 3, 2020 · Leave a comment

Doug Anderson: Vulnerable

It is winter now and also, for me,
the other winter that has no spring.
Our world has turned dark
and fascists have risen from their graves.

January 2, 2020 · 1 Comment

Sally Bliumis-Dunn: Work

The father sanded the gunwales,the boy coiled the lines.
And I admired them there, each to his task
in the quiet of the long familiar.

December 30, 2019 · Leave a comment

Jose Padua: Glenn Gould’s Search for Petula Clark

Thinking of what might have been,
I save every piece of paper and take my time
coming down from the mountain, believing
in the wisdom of taking the long way home.

December 29, 2019 · 3 Comments

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