Deborah Bogen: Three poems by Yongbo Ma
…thunder is like a guarantee that everything exists,
that the wine will not sour,
that the season will turn again,
as it always has.
Deborah Bogen: Two Poems
I think of the ways we got it wrong. All the things we didn’t know. Who did it — and why — where it was done and how we can think about the Lord’s Prayer as thirteen ways of looking at a tragedy.
Deborah Bogen: Sisters
I’m the last sister standing — but tonight I mean to lie down, to practice being in the box
Deborah Bogen: Bashō
Sweet friend, hear me. There will always be trouble.
Deborah Bogen: Risk
In Sappho, the spaces name nothing — but the emptiness still speaks.
Deborah Bogen: Season of Light — and of Darkness
If you happen to meet someone for whom the season of light is a reminder of a dark time, of a sorrow or a loneliness, take a moment and sit with them, let them be that dark. Believe in their sorrow as you believe also in joy. Believe in them.
Deborah Bogen: Homeless Box
Sometimes we cross to the other side to get away from their carts and tarps, to avoid their dirty murky faces, but mostly we look through them, past them, above them, our eyes seeking the sanctuary of the shiny store windows.
Deborah Bogen: Four Truths About Anesthesia
1/ Maybe this is how it is: as you fall asleep a small hole opens in the back of your head just above the neck where children love to be … Continue reading
Deborah Bogen: October
A train pulls into the station. Passengers break like billiard balls, glide to cars and uses. Ezekiel the pushcart vendor hawks his hot potatoes. This is the month of the … Continue reading
Deborah Bogen: Florida
Abraham. What were you thinking nudging Isaac up that hill? You must have known some tests must be refused. You say I shouldn’t judge, that I’ve made my own mistakes … Continue reading
Deborah Bogen: This Poet’s Occasional Alternative
after the great Grace Paley to mark these dark and dangerous times I was going to write a poem I made a call instead it took about the same … Continue reading
Deborah Bogen: Learning to Eavesdrop
The Summer I Took The Special Art Class I began to understand — the moon could be aspirin, or Necco, or clock or porcelain plate in the sky. The moon … Continue reading
Deborah Bogen: Post-Traumatic Stress Ghazal
Fear fades, but the stain is set, remembered in odd neuron groups, each vignette remembered. The shadow of the bridge that floated on the water, the broken boy half-drowned, … Continue reading
