Robert Creeley: The Rain
What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often?
Jose Padua: The Shape I’m In
it was the middle of a Lower East Side winter and the heat
in my apartment that night was up so high, after being completely out
for a week, that I couldn’t help but feel sexy, knowing I had pork buns
in my tiny fridge
Elise Paschen: Two Poems
Ruby-Throated, she
undaunted, taps the porch screen,
types tiny missives.
Jim Daniels: Roaming the Galleries
No one ever stopped on Rome Street in Warren, Michigan,
to set up their easel and paint, not even on John B.
after 6 members of the Park family died in a Christmas fire
Traci Brimhall: Museum of Fire
On the first story my son and I make the history of fire,
on the second he wants to make where we are, the slow
smolder of Kansas
Pablo Otavalo: Caravaggio, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio
cutthroat, villain, body carved in light cut through a valley of darkness the gods and us and saints sickly and angry and Christ himself a body. Vagrant your thoughts and … Continue reading
Ernesto Cardenal: Prayer for Marilyn Monroe
Lord,
welcome this girl known throughout the world as Marilyn Monroe,
although that was not her real name
Archibald MacLeish: Ars Poetica
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
Sean Sexton: Whelmed+
I tap out my pipe, aware of the grand majesty
of a morning taking shape—all the breezes of the
yester-day settle like complaint grown silent.
Nidia Hernández: Refugiada | A refugee
the country in a foreign film
where I live now
I’m alone with the trees
Jim Minick: Know the Trees, One by One
Know the trees, one by one,
rough-barked, smooth, shingled, or banded,
oak, hickory, maple, or gum.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Farmer’s Market in Antwerp
I remember this so clearly — as if it happened today.
How she arranged her skirt, rubbed her hands together.
Michael Daley: Upbeat Hardwired Blameless
Let’s always come back to this room.
For what it’s worth, as the place where
windows open onto a world we think of
as our own
Angele Ellis: Love in a Time of Genocide | In Palestine Wail, Yahia Lababidi seeks the redemption of the human soul
Tell me, what steel entered your heart,
what fear made you rabid,
what hate drove out pity?
