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Juan Luis Guzmán

Pantoum The first time I touch a man in lust I remember this: pleasure isn’t something you should give away so easily. Everything I know about loving a man comes second hand; my mother shares with my sister in the next room, I listen. Pleasure isn’t something you should give away so easily, I collect… Continue reading Juan Luis Guzmán

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Lisa Russ Spaar

When this day returns to me I will value your heart, long hurt in long division, over mine. Mouth above mine too — say you love me, truth never more meant, say you are angry. Words, words we net with our mouths. Soul is an old thirst but not as first as the body’s perhaps, though… Continue reading Lisa Russ Spaar

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Dunya Mikhail

How thrilling to appear in his eyes. She can’t understand what he’s saying: she’s too busy chewing his voice. She looks at the mouth she’ll never kiss, at the shoulder she’ll never cry on, at the hand she’ll never hold, and at the ground where their shadows meet. — Dunya Mikhail, from “Tablets,” trans. from… Continue reading Dunya Mikhail

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Mahmoud Darwish

The road is long like an ancient poet’s night: plains and hills, rivers and valleys. Walk according to your dream’s measure: either a lily follows you or the gallows. — Mahmoud Darwish, from “To a Young Poet,” trans. Fady Joudah, Poetry (March 2010)

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Lloyd Schwartz

You’ll be driving along depressed when suddenly a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably won’t last. But for a moment the whole world comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives— red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermillion, gold. Flame and rust.… Continue reading Lloyd Schwartz

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Contemporary · Online Anthology · Online Magazine · Periodical · Poetry

M.J. Iuppa

What do they call the sadness of a solitary sleep?                                                      −−− Pablo Neruda There is a certain remoteness to the puddle.  Its brackish water ripples in goose bumps, concealing mud’s sole contemplation that lies just below the surface, dreaming of your misstep . . . — M.J. Iuppa, “Mud,” Poetry Pacific Tuesday, 5 November… Continue reading M.J. Iuppa

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