Editor’s Note

Readers, as you will note, I have once again this month vacated my space in this note so that we might continue to offer a new element, instead: the authors of the poems (or translations, or both) speaking of their

Featured Selection

Reviews

Review: William Brewer

In this month’s installment, reviews editor Adam Tavel examines a devastating debut about opioid addiction.             I Know Your Kind by William Brewer Milkweed Editions $16, 95 pages published September 2017   According to a

Essays and Comment

Essays and Comment: Kathy Lou Schultz

Teaching African American Poetry in the Age of Trump   Poetry can’t change the world. The world where we witness horrors from the dismissal of every child’s right to receive a quality education and live in a safe environment, to

This Month's Selections

Human Technology

Sunlit & dangerous, this country road. We are follicle & meat & terror & the machines leave their shells naked on the ground. One soldier makes a museum in his basement. Each mannequin in brass, unburnable coats: I am walking

Two Poems

walls one morning without shadows in the blue grass the walls will have an evening a vanished day their dead gates – no coming and going no eyes that meet birds flying over land in nets   invisible they will sing

Three Rilke Poems

Abend in Skåne   The park is high. As from a house I step out into the waning light, into The open and the evening. Into the wind— The same wind that stirs the clouds, The bright rivers, and the

Building the Boat, Trèboul (1930)

after the painting by Christopher Wood   Half-way, the basket nature of the ship reveals itself, to us though not perhaps to the two men or the women bringing material or sitting in gossip on the quay, for, though real

Two Poems

My Fjord   I will sail through my own fjord and I will name the fjord My Fjord. I know it’s incorrect to say that the Vikings wore horned helmets, but I will wear a horned helmet, for my job

Two Poems

  Doing Sudoku on September 11, 2016                                                 (Muriel’s 18th Birthday)     Confusion hadn’t yet released its poisons when I pushed like a champ. Now, in Ohio, battleground state, you canvas and prepare to vote. Increase the numbers! I

Let the Dead Bury the Dead

Surely she would want to hear one final song, something from the Carpathians, something folkloric about flying geese or curly hair, just to calm her nerves before he laid her to rest.  Or she might ask for a glass of

ON HANDSHAKES

There are firm ones.  Soft, almost boneless ones.  Hardy/hearty ones.  Two-handed ones, cocooning.  Congratulatory ones (well done!).  Business ones, the deal settled.  Kinship ones.  Secret, coded ones for fraternities and special groups.  Ones for greeting and for farewell.  Ones for

Two Poems

Good Stuff   ‘There’s some good stuff on Youtube,’ someone writes. The kettle’s heating; while I’m waiting, I find the one he means.  My lighter lights At last. The thousands who have chosen To watch the clip have given it

Moss City

City down to the last nuance is moss, straightleaved, twisten, fossilized in travertine, some that lives on rotting wood or the sunniest crest in Central Park, other whose resilience but for a cup of water is stifled. Mosses don’t need

A Sampler

from THE SOLITUDE OF FORMS By Ana Gorría        There is always a fold within a fold. Gilles Deleuze     Your Proximity as Utopia As you hold your breath, like a watchman waiting for sunrise. Let’s replace