Marty McConnell
The dustin my lungs, Knock itout of me. — Marty McConnell, from “Elegy” Court Green 12 (2015)
Category: Online Anthology
Amie Whittemore
To forget how you tasted those leggy afternoonswhen our bodies spilledlike wine across the floor, is to admit a hawk into the house.Is to wring a rag of water. When I’m in the thicketwith my smaller hungers,I don’t need to know every cave and what it stores, cooland damp, for you. I don’t needto know… Continue reading Amie Whittemore
Ed Block
At night my prayerslike empty bowls,rattle in the cupboardof my heart,as trains of sadnessrumble through the crossingsof my life. — Ed Block, closing lines to “Prairie Hours,” Parabola (vol. 39, no. 4, Winter 2014-2015)
Corinna Rosendahl
There is a massof sadnessfloating into the garden. Of courseI go after it. — Corinna Rosendahl, from “Red Moon,” Salt Hill (vol. 36)
Brian Chander Wiora
I have learned more words since you left […]. I have learnedthat an Indian man severely in love is called Devdas,named after a character in a novel. Reading the bookwith the free time I found in loneliness. — Brian Chander Wiora, from “Love Language,” The Boiler (Winter XXXV,
Suphil Lee Park
You remember having lived once or twiceas if you’re made of secondhand sweaters.When you try to think up someone dearin detail, your memory, as every morning, failsto dream. It’s hard to suffer in one sitting,you realize. — Suphil Lee Park, from “Aerial View of Maze,” The Greensboro Review (no. 112, Fall 2022)
Charles Reznikoff
Now that black ground and bushes—saplings, trees,each twig and limb—are suddenly white with snow,and earth becomes brighter than the sky, that intricate shrubof nerves, veins, arteries—myself—uncurlsits knotted leavesto the shining air. — Charles Reznikoff, from “Winter Sketches,” Poetry (January 1933)
Jorge Luis Borges
Who will you be tonight, in the dark thrallof sleep, when you have slipped across its wall? — Jorge Luis Borges, Poetry (June 1993)
Cinto Vitier
My words verge on silencelike great birds that disappearinto the early evening: theirstrenuous white wingscarry off the intense sweetnessof dusk, visible thenin starlight.My words turn toward the nightwith no look backat what is lost or won, orwhat is missing, — Cinto Vitier, from “Greater Solitude,” transl. Kathleen Weaver, Image: Art, Faith, Mystery (no. 65, Spring… Continue reading Cinto Vitier
Bob Taylor
1I can’t help but hatehaiku. They end abruptlyjust as they’re getting2going. See? I needanother just to finishthis simple thought, and3maybe it’s true thatall the love in the world couldfit in a matchbox4but who would want totry, and where, in that case, wouldone store their matches?— Rob Taylor, “Haikus 1-4,” The Other Side of Ourselves, Previously… Continue reading Bob Taylor
The Vale of Soul-Making 