Category / Current

Four Poems

“LITTLE PIECES OF STRING TOO SMALL TO BE USED” Granny’s label on a box in her attic. Four dozen cardboard boxes, filed alphabetically. And all tied with string. How Mom laughed about Granny, but when at bedtime I’d beg her

Stages on a Journey Westward

1 All the mapmakers in history have been wrong— though to vastly differing degrees. Mostly it hasn’t mattered. 2 The old city thinning out, giving way to strip malls and tar-seamed panels of parking lots— and thinning inside me already

For Those Whose Lives Have See…

I am returning without you from the place we went together. – Sezen Arseven, survivor, Club Reina, Istanbul   Welcome all who have traveled the long road from where your deepest dreams began in the wild ferment of sleep, or

july

The best thing about this month is not the dark blue in her brief nights but her adolescent acting out when looking for the right pose she raises her drowsy eyes and through her verdant lashes stares straight into the

from Border Crossings

6 On dark nights when I have no words of my own, translations calm me, let me jump deep in letter by letter soaking up the dampness of the words. I hear a whispered sigh like the sea in the

Amsterdam

Your shadow is born new every time you step into the day or turn a light on or fall under the sway of the moon. Your shadow is born true every time you fall into the day or persuade a

Olympia

The ancient Greeks knew how to pick out a sacred spot, I think when I first see Olympia, trees rippling in the wind, and the ruins and calm, though that could be because the parking lot is a long walk

return of the repressed in the…

for eric creating and smashing ideas of high and low was a good business but it cost followers much unneeded pain: they did get tenure but at what cost? to take up gymnastics at their age was therapeutic but not

FOUNTAIN

Dogwood white knuckle it through January, February, March: what do your pockets want with those hard stars? Commissioned in the nineteenth century for thirsty horses, municipal fountains in Kansas City, where visitors and locals alike are now invited to kill

LOOKING AT DAD

To see my father not seeing me with one eye, and with the other fogged by glaucoma—iced connections in his head, scrambled heaps of images, the seaside, the earthquake—I remember sitting at the same table. Smoking the same cigarette, drinking

Remedios Varo’s Locomotion C…

Riding the bicycles of their beards, wearing wreaths of cloud, they come, they go, one roping the startled woman with his rufous anaconda whiskers. Only she looks at you, her fingers splayed in surprise, lifted off the cobbles and balanced

A Poem and Two Fables

Elegy   The breeze this morning pulls on the surface of the bay, spinning the short-clipped waves like the notes on the brass cylinder of a music box—sky as open lid, miniature ballerina turning more and more slowly in place

The Only One

after Yannis Ritsos “The Third One”     In the stories of old there were always three. Three who fell, three who rose, three who loved the world. But in truth there was only one. How to explain? There was

Unfinished Business

Cleaning up, in the kitchen, she goes to wipe away a small black seed from the counter. But the small black seed moves, and then walks hastily off in the other direction. No, I am not a seed, the little

POSTCARD WITH A CITY’S AERIA…

Friends, To think that each lit window there tells a story in this city’s Great Books. A few paragraphs ­— not pages or chapters — written by us all.  He and I met some of you in those rooms, loved