Cornelius Eady: Charlie Chaplin Impersonates a Poet
Here is the little tramp, standing
On a stack of books in order
To reach the microphone
Louie Skipper: How did John Keats breathe
Where is the bronze statue to the drunk
who shared a cell
in the Concord jail with Thoreau?
Sandra Shapshay: At once tiny and huge — what is this feeling we call ‘sublime’?
Have you ever felt awe and exhilaration while contemplating a vista of jagged, snow-capped mountains? Or been fascinated but also a bit unsettled while beholding a thunderous waterfall such as … Continue reading
Bart Plantenga: Jose Padua’s Poems — Where The Length Of The Titles Are, If Not Everything, At Least Something To Amuse Or Amaze
There’s no disputing it: Jose Padua writes some of the most meaningful poems being written today about today. They are DIY soulful and this is especially important in a world … Continue reading
Clarissa Pinkola Estés: The Four Rabbinim
One night four rabbinim were visited by an angel who awakened them and carried them to the Seventh Vault of the Seventh Heaven. There they beheld the sacred Wheel of … Continue reading
Juniper White: Erato
Meet me in the white space between the words, where the language of tongues has no boundary, and end sheets frame the rooting around. We’ll dance the iambic dance, frolic … Continue reading
Michael T. Young: Scrawl
He likes to repeat to himself a phrase from a Keats letter: I will clamber through the clouds and exist. It steadies him like leaning against trees, or brewing coffee … Continue reading
Al Maginnes: Source
Out of sore feet, out of roadsides sooted with dusk, out of gravel, jeweled crumbs of shattered glass, out of the wide gesture of the hand toward heaven, out … Continue reading
Djelloul Marbrook: The Prosody of an Ineradicable Sob
My poems, whatever their other springs may be, flow from the meter of my inner voice in creative conflict with an ineradicable sob. When my breathing is interrupted by a … Continue reading
Robert Gibb: After the Reading
White cups floating above the waters in their cut-glass vase, The tulips have finally opened, while beside her— Pittsburgh, winter—windows shimmer with freezing rain. It’s the morning after the … Continue reading
Philip Terman: All Her Life
Philip Terman?—you don’t know me. I’m Patricia Lamb, Palliative care nurse. Do you know what that means? I work with patients who are dying. And I received an odd … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: Because Poetry
Has become of such little use to you Has no meaning outside its tribe Has been supplanted by music lyrics for most of the population who might otherwise be reading … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: Poetry, Politics, and Zen
If only we could touch the things of this world at their center, if we could only hear tiny leaves of birch struggling toward April, then we would know. — … Continue reading
Mike James: What I Know About Poetry
some things keep happening a rock rolls down a hill, bounces, bounces, rolls along makes a sound every time it bumps the dirt cracks itself and the silence … Continue reading
