The Poets Speak

Ron Slate on “Between the Bed and the Window”   “Between the Bed and the Window” was sparked by a dare. My poet friend Elaine Sexton, my artist friend John Kramer, and I occasionally challenge each other to produce something

Featured Selection

Featured Selection: Norman Dubie

    NM: Hi Norman. Thank you for talking with us at Plume and sharing your lovely, mysterious, and deeply interesting poems; it’s an honor. You’re one of the most revered and beloved elders of the poetry tribe who blazed

Reviews

Essays and Comment

Essays and Comment: Amish Trivedi

Taylor Swift is a Barbarian, or: Stephanie Burt’s Defense of Poetry   In November 2017, Cosmopolitan published an interview with Stephanie Burt in which Burt critiqued poems Taylor Swift had included in “magazines” packaged with her latest album, Reputation. In

This Month's Selections

Two Poems

Morning, Redux   Another morning in the  obscure, light  spackling the  clouds  rolling  in, running before  some  storm. The  sky flattened like an unstamped envelope. The  local predators must have been  sleeping  in. It was early November, songbirds off on

Three Poems

from   Devil Mutant Child a tale of an evolution of emotional intimacy            for Florida Missouri Brasier 2. Exactly the hair I wanted, I am not complaining. Were I to choose what sprouts from my head, this hair is exactly

Between the Bed and the Window

First, the light, which is always perfect if it’s arriving from the sky, at this moment indirectly from the east, reflected off the banked clouds in the window and making the dim bedroom visible including my feet, having followed the

What Light Tastes Like

Depends on the hour of departure and if flowers or fruits, maybe the lacy grapeyness of kudzu in early fall, for all its artsiness a killjoy at heart.  I will rot before I regret being driven from Gaylord Drive, though

Two Poems

Untitled     Day as in backwards   as in wisps of rain and a two-room flat against the sea   I loved the long flights of stairs and the high-sided streets and the well-worn shoes just inside the door

April

I think I will accept my life, the moment of its briefness, which means I must accept my failures in this cosmos where only angry gods reside.  When I am disconsolate, I wonder did they ever cry?  If they did

The Myth of the Eternal Return

The river sinks beneath our love for green, for golf. The world’s southernmost islands lap and lap. Their copra shrinks. Stomachs shrink. Australia burns. We love their babies in our zoos, the lottery that draws their names. [My mother is

Woman, Man, Tepoztlán

Mother, today I met a man. We drank chocolate in the square. He showed me his drawings. Then he led me to the farthest wood to meet an old friend. It was a tree. Mother, he was lonely. He had

(naked) dreaming

an artist friend once told me that clothes are merely a distraction from the human body. we agreed that the dream would be to shut all the blinds, let your clothes fall to your feet. select a cd from your

RIFF ON A LINE BY CHAR

Avec le lente neige descendent les lépreux. —René Char, ‘Victoire Éclaire’   Somewhere inside the sacerdotal Thicket of Leviticus, there’s the ritual Concerning those ‘struck with skin blanch.’ Once a leper is cleansed the priest commands That crimson wool, hyssop,

Labyrinth (Lear)

A poorly timed abdication. A madness descending more inevitably than my footfall on the rolling paths of this post-war development   a stranger would need a map to navigate. In a book on loneliness, a political scientist proposes that our

From The Little Book of Passage

Da Libretto di transito   Ecco il fiume che mi allarga lo sguardo, che mi attraversa la fronte. Lo aspetto ogni volta. So quando arriva dal diverso rumore che fanno le rotaie sul ponte. Accanto al sedile una piccola valigia.