What I want you to see is that this is a love poem. It only exits if you see it that way. — Richard Jackson, from “Shorelines,” Body (June 8, 2012) Advertisements
I work so hard to forget myself & now the trees are full of autumn. This is the time of year when I would rip myself apart if I thought it would do any good. — Nate Pritts, from “Life Event,” Powder Keg (Issue One)
Full Moon Good God! What did I dream last night? I dreamt I was the moon. I woke and found myself still asleep. It was like this: my face misted up from inside And I came and went at will through a little peephole. I had no voice, no mouth, nothing to express my trouble,… Continue reading Alice Oswald
Oh we’re a mess, poor humans, poor flesh—hybrids of angels and animals, dolls with diamonds stuffed inside them We’ve been to the moon and we’re still fighting over Jerusalem. Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. — Richard Siken, from… Continue reading Richard Siken
Consciousness observes and is appeased. The soul scrambles across the screes. The soul, like the square root of minus 1, is an impossibility that has its uses. — Vijay Sesahdri, from “Imaginary Number,” Poetry (February 2012)
I don’t know how to become one with you. If you’re heaven, then tell me. I will kneel to every god. If you’re hell, then tell me. I will fill the earth with sin. I don’t know how to become one with you. If you’re an invaded soil, then tell me. I will make my… Continue reading Abdulla Pashew
we reread letters the dead once sent and imagine different answers everything becomes clear once it is too late there is not enough thread of regret left to string the shards of our night” — Amina Saïd, from “The Mothers.” Poems Without Borders: July 2011 issue. Translated from French by Marilyn Hacker.