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Plume Issue #165 May 2025

from       Museu-d’Art-Contemporani-de-Barcelona
©Hiroshi Watanabe, www.hiroshiwatanabe.com

  • Do I Dream or Wake? Longer poems by DeWitt Henry reviewed by Susan Isla Tepper

    After finishing DeWitt Henry’s new poetry book Do I Dream Or Wake?
    Book Review

  • The Daily Practice of Poetry by David Breskin

    As a recovering journalist, I decided to write about the 2016 presidential election on a daily basis
    Special Feature

  • Skaja, Moore, Sesgo, et. al.

    Emily Skaja on “It’s the stage of grief where .”: I wrote this poem as part…

    The Poets and Translators Speak

  • Julia Bouwsma, Maine Poet Laureate Interviewed by Sally Bliumis-Dunn

    Julia Bouwsma lives off-the-grid in the mountains of western Maine where she works as a poet, homesteader, editor, teacher, and small-town librarian.
    Featured Selection

  • That’s How We Met translated by Chenxin Jiang

    If only I didn’t have to grow up

  • Desire Corners Me in the Quiet

    On the beach, I take self portraits with my eyes closed,

  • Two Poems

    If this gray house where I live, house

  • Three Poems translated from Spanish by John R. Sesgo 

    Look at it right there

  • The Happiness on the Other Side of Happiness

    Kids swing and old men sit. That's the way

  • “My Name, a Nun, St. Peter’s Chair, and Literary Fame—Not Necessarily in That Order”; An Essay by Peter Johnson

    My mother named me Peter because I was born on the feast of St. Peter’s Chair and thus have always felt sat upon.
    Essays and Comment

  • It’s the stage of grief where [I become a transparent eyeball]

    I become a transparent eyeball. I am nothing. I see all.

  • The Studio

    The palette down left in the foreground,

  • A Drone Over Amish Country

    We live in the past because there is nothing else to live in.

  • Dead Ringers

    Millions of miles of celluloid

  • Four Poems

    A sudden pain flares in in my head like a match flaring into darkness: my mother is dying.

  • Two Poems

    All the twists in all the tongues, all

  • Amalgam

    Mostly, what I didn’t know didn’t hurt me

  • Two Poems

    The birch trees want to be left alone.