But after a few minutes
they become bold and
like dark thoughts
I saw one once—heaved onto the sand with kelp
stuck to its blue-gray skin.
Heavy and immobile,
it lay like a great sadness.
Through song and story, Patti Smith gives us new insight into the transcendent genius of William Blake.
Performance poet (and math student) Harry Baker spins a love poem about his favorite kind of numbers — the lonely, love-lorn prime. He also has a complaint about Paper People. Here are two lively, inspiring poems from this charming performer.
We prayed for the game warden’s blindness.
We prayed for the road home.
We ate the fish.
On rainy nights when the roof leaked,
when the bills piled up, nights I lay in the hospital
waiting for X-rays or surgery
the monster’s shadow stained the walls.
At noon, fox lolls in the sun
rises and trots, pausing now and then
to look my way.
How have these ligaments
held, for their umbones, each life’s intention
of never letting go?