Stephen Dobyns: No Map
To neither did I say how much
I loved them, nor express the extent of my fear.
Their bodies are delicate glass boxes
at which the world begins to fling its stones.
Stephen Dobyns: Santiago in Winter
He is gone now, the blind man, tidily dressed
in a suit of dust, with a dusty tie and dark glasses,
who played the clarinet on Paseo Huerfanos,
the paseo of the orphanage…
Stephen Dobyns: The Gardener
And he had imagined sitting in the evening
with his friend the Devil watching the small
human creatures frolic in the grass. They would
be like children, good natured and always singing.
When had he realized his mistake?
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Vox Populi now has almost 11,000 email subscribers. Every day we publish a carefully curated selection of poetry, essays, videos, music and art. Our regular contributors include Naomi Shihab Nye, … Continue reading
Stephen Dobyns: Pursuit
Each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else. In such a way do the days pass— a blend of stock car racing and the never … Continue reading
Stephen Dobyns: My Town
This happens occasionally in my town. Maybe it’s a sort of nervousness or hysteria, even displaced fervor, as if fervor were a kind of cloud or the fog that rolls … Continue reading
Stephen Dobyns: Stars
The man took the wrong fork in the road. It was out in the country. They saw no signs. It was getting dark. They began to blame each other. Should … Continue reading