Posts Tagged: poetry

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 it worms into me, swimming veins, up to my armpit where it curls inside my chest

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 it worms into me, swimming veins, up to my armpit where it curls inside my chest

(by Edward aka Autumn Leaf)

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,

(by Edward aka Autumn Leaf)

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,

(image courtesy Jordan Blanchard)

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

(image courtesy Jordan Blanchard)

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

(image courtes Cari Ann Wayman)

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

(image courtes Cari Ann Wayman)

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 (or that old dance)

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 (or that old dance)

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