Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Paul Christensen: The October Twilight

Leaf by leaf, the sky unfolds its ancient sunlight and lets the fragments of history drift to the ground, one broken fact at a time. How difficult it is to gather up the ruins of time and try to make sense of what we are — the foreground we emerged from, the burden of our legacy as inheritors of shame and guilt.

October 11, 2020 · 4 Comments

Paul Christensen: Three Cheers for Autumn

I woke up this morning to a chill in the air. I closed the bedroom windows and shivered into my clothes, then hurried down to the kitchen to consult the … Continue reading

September 21, 2020 · 2 Comments

Paul Christensen: The Grinding Gears of Time

Trump’s house of cards is built on ruses and Iago-like deceptions, a palace of flimsy lies waiting for the door to fly open and a gust of honest wind to sweep them all away.

September 7, 2020 · 3 Comments

Paul Christensen: A Comforting Breeze

I am hopeful again, a man who has awakened from a long dream to find that heaven has opened its granary at last and spilled this nourishment down upon each of us, all of us.

August 19, 2020 · 4 Comments

Paul Christensen: On Silence

I am possessed of a brooding spirit, some ominous angel who has landed on my shoulders, staring at my ear. It wants to know why I do not understand silence, the poetry of space.

July 5, 2020 · Leave a comment

Paul Christensen: The Reluctant Summer

I could feel the rage building as I saw the nation writhe, then uncoil its wrath and take to the streets. I was demoralized to realize that my whole life had been lived in the twisted emotions of a country poisoned to its soul with racist hatred.

June 14, 2020 · 1 Comment

Paul Christensen: The Book of Eternity

The dark has stairs and doors that have never been opened. Who knows where they lead, or what impenetrable paradoxes await the person who turns a knob and presses against the infinite ignorance we cower from?

May 4, 2020 · 6 Comments

Paul Christensen: Timbrels in the Marsh

The sky is a stoic blue, hard as a marble, with little wimpy clouds that carry nothing more than a few regrets from a dying winter. We’re here, right on the precipice of a season.

March 22, 2020 · 8 Comments

Paul Christensen: When the Ice Won’t Melt

It’s one of those diamond-bright days of early winter, with the ground ringing like iron when you walk on it.

February 6, 2020 · Leave a comment

Paul Christensen: Snow Bound

The snow and the dark wind, the impassable wastes of one’s backyard, the icy draft that leaks in under the front door tell you you have no place to go. You must sit down and allow the slightly old-fashioned language of self to drift in.

January 19, 2020 · 3 Comments

Sydney Lea: Passing the Arts and Crafts Fair

There aren’t many like him anymore, the handy, soft-spoken old ones, who still know how to farm, how to raise up a house you can live in, how to still-hunt a whitetail.

January 17, 2020 · Leave a comment

Robert Frost: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

December 27, 2019 · 2 Comments

Paul Christensen: The Rain It Raineth Every Day

They say the average cloud weighs about the same as eighty elephants. A big storm such as now darkens the sky overhead must be an infinite parade of elephants milling around in the dark gray pastures above us.

October 27, 2019 · Leave a comment

Paul Christensen: Ghosts and Memories

It’s the place where the dead are sleeping, barely breathing in the moist black earth along the creek. They will rise when the time comes, and ask the living for a candle, perhaps a dish with a cookie on it.

October 13, 2019 · 1 Comment

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