Pale, sentinel, their stone wings
Open behind them, they stood about
As though the afterlife meant
To impress itself upon us
Smith frames: Tomoko Uemura in Her Bath
The mother cradles Tomoko, her misshapen daughter.
Light through a dark window.
A post-modern pietà.
“The infinite mistake of Pittsburgh does not take from the fact that the set of photographs is among my finest.”
The only connection I felt to the mills
was to the children of a generation of flayed men
on unemployment, the storefronts boarded…
James Wright: Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me
The old grasshoppers
Are tired, they leap heavily now,
Their thighs are burdened.
I want to hear them, they have clear sounds to make.
Sometimes it’s painful to watch a group of poets trying to work a room as if they were politicians. The AWP conference, as the wag put it, is comprised of 15,000 introverts pretending to be extroverts.
Years ago the friend of a friend called me
A “Professional Irishman.” Fair enough.
i. You’d see them in the railyard, Coupled and waiting in line To be topped off with that cargo Tapped from the blast furnaces: Magma they’d freight nightly Along … Continue reading
Robert Gibb is a poet’s poet. By that phrase I mean that he’s widely admired among poets across the country, but virtually unknown to the public. He’s published a dozen … Continue reading