American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Language Driven Poetry · Poetry

Richard Jackson

Desperate Note from Byron’s Palace in Lerici In the blue wind the leaves begin to think they are birds. This is when you lean your body against its sorrows. The truth is always there with its hidden reefs. Your touch still hovers over the shore. Each wave is a mirror that washes in a past… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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Richard Jackson

Silences The world is made of water. —Parmenides I can barely remember, now, that unwritten poem in which you suddenly appeared, and which disappeared the way your Mohawk fathers disappeared from the valley I lived in once. I have only these words that seem as if they climbed up from the bottom of a dry… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Language Driven Poetry · Passage · Poetry

Richard Jackson

I imagined a dark world where the stars clamor to be inside us. Whatever we invent becomes the history we have to live. In truth, it takes only a handful of history’s shadows to commandeer our dreams It takes a famine of the heart to empty the streets of our words. It takes an imaginary… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Language Driven Poetry · Passage · Poetry

Richard Jackson

I am sorry the time is passing so slowly. I am sorry, birds, for not mentioning you again until the end. My fifth grade teacher said comets are angels. You can determine the exact makeup of a comet by spectrographic analysis. An X ray of this poem would reveal dark spots on its heart. It… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Language Driven Poetry · Passage · Poetry

Richard Jackson

I have imagined you beginning this by candlelight, so I have let the rain scribble itself across your window, written how your flesh seems to breathe like the petals of a flower, how my fingers trace the shallow pockets behind your knees, because, in truth, these lines could lead us anywhere. — Richard Jackson, from… Continue reading Richard Jackson

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