Christine Rhein: Uncharted Waters
Heavy and high buckles the sea.
We complain / we blame.
This is no time for poetry.
Zeina Azzam: My love, how can I contact you? حبيبي، كيف بدي اتصل فيك؟
They handcuffed him, didn’t listen when he’d speak,
callously severing him from his home
as his wife cried, حبيبي، كيف بدي اتصل فيك؟
Robert Wrigley: A Certain Man
For in the loop of this hell there’s a farcical rule,
that says when certain men find a certain man
of use—one that’s spiteful, vacant, and cruel —
he becomes for his purposes the perfect tool…
Andy Young: Bone Saw Villanelle
In the museum, the Victorian cutting saw shone
with its curved jade handle. He asked me to snap a pic,
stunned by beauty paired with amputation.
Jim Minick: Know the Trees, One by One
Know the trees, one by one,
rough-barked, smooth, shingled, or banded,
oak, hickory, maple, or gum.
Theodore Roethke: The Waking
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Video: Dick Allen reads If You Visit Our Country & Sleepy Old Towns
Born in Troy, New York, on August 8, 1939, Dick Allen is the author of eight poetry collections, including Present Vanishing (Sarabande Books, 2008). He received fellowships from the National Endowment for the … Continue reading
Arlene Weiner: Another Art
Put it on eBay, ka-ching, ka-ching—
keep nothing but the things that give you cheer.
But so many objects seem to want to cling
Wendy Cope: Lissadell
The light of evening. A gazelle.
It seemed unchanged since Yeats’s day.
Last year we went to Lissadell
And life was good and all is well.
Nick Graham: Legends
Game trails, foot paths, roads—ever less narrow,
history’s cool path of annotation.
Maps fold flat and unfold worlds we might know,
showing how to get where we long to go
David Huddle: Villanelle for Lady Day
Billie said, “If I’m going to sing like someone
else, then I don’t need to sing at all.” Let’s
just say I was white and knew how to conform.
Miriam Levine: Daylight Savings
There’s more light than anyone would need.
At six o’clock the sky is bright.
I have my friend’s last poem to read.
Edwin Arlington Robinson: The House on the Hill
They are all gone away, The House is shut and still, There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray The winds blow bleak and shrill They are … Continue reading
