Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Jason Irwin: Giuseppe the Shoe-Maker

Giuseppe, a simple shoe-maker,
who never learned English, stood
banging his head against the wall,
cursing God in his native tongue

October 27, 2020 · 1 Comment

Jason Irwin: Their Hands

All I remember were their hands holding me down: my mother’s father’s, a young nurse who gripped my left arm, and the doctor, who, before each prick into my skin, assured me it wasn’t a needle, just his finger.

October 15, 2020 · 4 Comments

Jason Irwin: Cucumbers

“I still can’t bring myself to buy cucumbers. He loved them.” she says, but never mentions the car accident, or how she had blamed me for your drinking again…

July 21, 2020 · Leave a comment

Jason Irwin: We Watched the Lights

You hardly touched your food.
Down to fifty-eight pounds
at your last check-up.
Yet, your hair was still beautiful…

June 25, 2020 · Leave a comment

Jason Irwin: Landscape

See the men break through the early morning mistlike phantoms from a dream; their hat brims
pulled low, shirt sleeves rolled above elbows,
boots caked with last week’s mud.

April 16, 2020 · 2 Comments

Jason Irwin: Smoke Rising

Back then to see dark clouds of smoke
rising above the housetops meant that God, in his wisdom and mercy,
was still on our side.

February 5, 2020 · Leave a comment

Jason Irwin: The Child and the Train

In the distance a train cries
like a whippoorwill,
and a child, in his bed,
sick with fever, wakens
from dreams of far off places.

December 26, 2019 · Leave a comment

Jason Irwin: Monster

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.

November 21, 2019 · 2 Comments

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