Posts Tagged: poetry
please say it for me please
I Go Back to May 1937 BY SHARON OLDS I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges, I see my father strolling out under the ochre sandstone arch, the red tiles glinting like bent plates of blood
please say it for me please
I Go Back to May 1937 BY SHARON OLDS I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges, I see my father strolling out under the ochre sandstone arch, the red tiles glinting like bent plates of blood
bird watching
bird watching by Anna Fonté The word observation can mean both attention and devotion, as if watching is both a scientific and a spiritual practice, as if there were a fascial connection between eye, heart, and beyond. I see some
bird watching
bird watching by Anna Fonté The word observation can mean both attention and devotion, as if watching is both a scientific and a spiritual practice, as if there were a fascial connection between eye, heart, and beyond. I see some
her hand
her hand by anna fonté hot & solid in my hand, when i hold hers i grip a hunk of liquid crystal baked in sun its warmth worms into me, swimming veins up to my armpit where it squirms inside my
her hand
her hand by anna fonté hot & solid in my hand, when i hold hers i grip a hunk of liquid crystal baked in sun its warmth worms into me, swimming veins up to my armpit where it squirms inside my
transportation
This morning at 2 a.m. 10/15/2012, my niece was born. I’m beside myself! Is there anything like a newborn? you drive home from the hospital with both hands on the steering wheel, accelerating carefully past a ferry loaded with strangers,
transportation
This morning at 2 a.m. 10/15/2012, my niece was born. I’m beside myself! Is there anything like a newborn? you drive home from the hospital with both hands on the steering wheel, accelerating carefully past a ferry loaded with strangers,
what i asked for
Every time I say the words “my” and “novel” in the same sentence, my novel hogties me to the bed and teaches me a lesson with a dull pencil: Take that, you pretentious twirp. So today, instead of trying to
what i asked for
Every time I say the words “my” and “novel” in the same sentence, my novel hogties me to the bed and teaches me a lesson with a dull pencil: Take that, you pretentious twirp. So today, instead of trying to
the poem you asked for
I did not sleep well last night. I rolled and rolled until I was dizzy and motion sick. I sometimes have bad thoughts in the middle of the night (visions of bleeding children, giant earthquakes, cancer diagnoses, and remembering every
the poem you asked for
I did not sleep well last night. I rolled and rolled until I was dizzy and motion sick. I sometimes have bad thoughts in the middle of the night (visions of bleeding children, giant earthquakes, cancer diagnoses, and remembering every
if numbers had faces
Lately, I’ve been thinking about numbers. When I was a kid learning math, every number had an association, a face, and/or a personality in my mind. I had a relationship with certain numbers: 2 worried me–I could never write it
if numbers had faces
Lately, I’ve been thinking about numbers. When I was a kid learning math, every number had an association, a face, and/or a personality in my mind. I had a relationship with certain numbers: 2 worried me–I could never write it
How to Talk Politics
Slap on some new-minted cologne, slick back with a fine-toothed comb, llck the pearly whites and grab the lectern with both hands. Lean forward. Lean. Imagine you’re as big and hard as a microphone. Picture a room full of pretty
How to Talk Politics
Slap on some new-minted cologne, slick back with a fine-toothed comb, llck the pearly whites and grab the lectern with both hands. Lean forward. Lean. Imagine you’re as big and hard as a microphone. Picture a room full of pretty
sentience
* how many years has it been since I fell in love with my own reflection if love was cold and flat as glass? I’ve spent my life staring into mirrors watching the years swim towards me like
sentience
* how many years has it been since I fell in love with my own reflection if love was cold and flat as glass? I’ve spent my life staring into mirrors watching the years swim towards me like
teaching snails to fly
writing is… standing on stage with your skirt up over your head. they approach, wielding sharpies: flabby, they write. cut this. question mark. the click of a camera shutter. all talk, no show. all show, no tell. on your knees
teaching snails to fly
writing is… standing on stage with your skirt up over your head. they approach, wielding sharpies: flabby, they write. cut this. question mark. the click of a camera shutter. all talk, no show. all show, no tell. on your knees
the loving
I was reading Courtenay Bluebird’s blog and I came across a beautiful poem she wrote called Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Bluebird, an homage to Wallace Stevens, or what CB calls an “English-to-English translation.” I loved it so much
the loving
I was reading Courtenay Bluebird’s blog and I came across a beautiful poem she wrote called Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Bluebird, an homage to Wallace Stevens, or what CB calls an “English-to-English translation.” I loved it so much
water dream
at night i dream water big water, unruffled as glass and as clear blue spanning from feet to horizon world open wide as a mouth tilted up to the sky. i pause at the edge, frozen under my umbrella, cold
water dream
at night i dream water big water, unruffled as glass and as clear blue spanning from feet to horizon world open wide as a mouth tilted up to the sky. i pause at the edge, frozen under my umbrella, cold
ablutions
It’s early morning. A shapeless form lumbers along the sidewalk, dragging a loaded cart on tiny wheels. I sit sipping tea at the front window of a café on Shattuck Avenue, pretending to be busy my pile of papers and
ablutions
It’s early morning. A shapeless form lumbers along the sidewalk, dragging a loaded cart on tiny wheels. I sit sipping tea at the front window of a café on Shattuck Avenue, pretending to be busy my pile of papers and
