tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57376642169611365692024-03-12T21:38:54.667-07:00C E N T O R A M AHappy Home of the Recombinant PoemUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-87891072451728399462018-01-18T09:00:00.000-08:002018-01-18T12:39:31.051-08:00One More Heinous CrimeUntil they look around<br />to the wide world and all her fading sweets,<br />there is your book, just as you laid it down,<br />the sun crawling inside the sheets<br />behind the wall thin as a wren’s bone:<br />a heap of broken images where the sun beats.<br />So at the edge of my home town<br />I drive around the streets<br />with neither name nor face.<br />A bottle of red wine each night moved her along<br />(and this gray spirit yearning in desire).<br />Each moment is a place.<br />Huge pangs, and strong,<br />until the lengthening wings break into fire.<br /><br /><i>Emily Dickinson</i> | Facts by Our Side Are Never Sudden<br /><i>William Shakespeare</i> | Sonnet 19<br /><i>Edna St. Vincent Millay</i> | Interim<br /><i>Anne Sexton</i> | The Break Away<br /><i>Dylan Thomas</i> | Vision and Prayer (I)<br /><i>T. S. Eliot</i> | The Waste Land<br /><i>William Stafford</i> | Boom Town<br /><i>Charles Bukowski</i> | I Made a Mistake<br /><i>Ogden Nash</i> | A Tale of the Thirteenth Floor<br /><i>Nick Flynn</i> | You Asked How<br /><i>Alfred, Lord Tennyson</i> | Ulysses<br /><i>Mark Strand</i> | Black Maps<br /><i>John Milton</i> | Upon the Circumcision<br /><i>Elizabeth Barrett Browning</i> | Sonnet 22<br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowPropertyChanges/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-77870751798067627092018-01-05T09:00:00.000-08:002018-01-05T15:23:19.052-08:00Tanka after Titles from The Devil's Tour, by Mary KarrEtching of the plague<br />
years. Winter in the city<br />
of friendship. Rounds, sad<br />
rite, soft mask. Grace. The legion<br />
bayou. The unweepables.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-89644362663183662542017-12-08T09:00:00.000-08:002017-12-10T22:10:22.089-08:00In TranquillityWhen I think of it now, the danger, the eventual gunshots echoing off gray brick, I remember<br />
the panicked yells of inquiry,<br />
<br />
two wild, one found only in cultivation.<br />
A vessel in Juan’s brain begins to bleed.<br />
<br />
We go on and we tremble,<br />
return to sip coffee quietly.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Santee Frazier</i> | The Robbery<br />
<i>Josephine Miles</i> | Fields of Learning<br />
<i>Linda Kunhardt</i> | Order<br />
<i>Frank Stanford</i> | Pits<br />
<i>Martín Espada</i> | Imagine the Angels of BreadUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-28681347745637067422017-11-15T09:00:00.000-08:002017-12-08T19:38:23.174-08:00Turning Away Quite LeisurelyThe quotidian violence of the world!<br />
Knowing this is by no means death<br />
(though the death-tined rioting peasant’s rake<br />
is cozening the Princesse de Clèves into a midnight micturition spree<br />
with no end, but brilliant nonetheless),<br />
I’ll have to wear dark glasses and carry the cane.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Arthur Size</i> | Shooting Star<br />
<i>Denise Levertov</i> | At the Justice Department November 15, 1969<br />
<i>Ed Sanders</i> | Yiddish Speaking Socialists of the Lower East Side<br />
<i>John Ashbery</i> | Daffy Duck in Hollywood<br />
<i>Terence Winch</i> | The Them Decade<br />
<i>David Trinidad</i> | Evening TwilightUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-71617057154231861902017-10-13T09:00:00.000-07:002017-12-08T19:38:51.627-08:00A Shovel the Only SoundMy mom often said he wasn’t the man<br />
running down the stairwell in the garden . . .<br />
<br />
When she was found, she was lying on her face.<br />
<br />
And I made one big mistake tonight.<br />
I did not call to the Holy Spirit or whistle <i>My lordy, lordy.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Nin Andrews</i> | Something Else<br />
<i>Charles Reznikoff</i> | Domestic Scenes<br />
<i>Blas Falconer</i> | Dear Friend<br />
<i>John Giorno</i> | I Resigned Myself to Being Here<br />
<i>David Biespiel</i> | MarvelUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-13332632597095323622017-10-11T09:00:00.000-07:002017-12-08T19:37:29.452-08:00Almost Up to ModernismHere is a factory made fresh by broken windows.<br />
Columns constructed from delirious dust<br />
split into a roomful of pictures that shimmer along walls<br />
speaking in tongues,<br />
destroying the Lake Poets in the process.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Elaine Equi</i> | A Bouquet of Objects<br />
<i>Diane Ward</i> | Lovely Stuff<br />
<i>Donna Masini</i> | Nightscape<br />
<i>Yusef Komunyakaa</i> | “Everybody's Reading Li Po” Silkscreened on a Purple T-Shirt<br />
<i>Michael Davidson</i> | Thinking the AlpsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-33258779877256840072017-10-05T09:00:00.000-07:002017-12-08T19:41:08.594-08:00Thick Clouds ConspireO, I’m the man who sailed those early seas<br />
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,<br />
holding quiet conversations with an early moon.<br />
Key West sank downward under massive clouds<br />
you will feel against your ankles as you pass through.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Langston Hughes</i> | Let America Be America Again<br />
<i>Elizabeth Alexander</i> | Praise Song for the Day<br />
<i>Amy Lowell</i> | Lilacs<br />
<i>Wallace Stevens</i> | Farewell to Florida<br />
<i>Lucie Brock-Broido</i> | Domestic MysticismUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-37216562998506561382017-09-26T09:00:00.000-07:002017-12-08T19:42:59.193-08:00Home Invasion with IKEA Bath TextilesShe was born to tease<br />
and lay there in the middle of the bed.<br />
Three boys beyond their mothers’ call<br />
shed tears, bodily fluids, at all this trust, at even the thought.<br />
Along the wall, the family’s bright towels.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Carla Drysdale</i> | Video Game<br />
<i>Elaine Sexton</i> | Rethinking Regret<br />
<i>Mary Cornish</i> | Numbers<br />
<i>Denise Duhamel</i> | Buying Stock<br />
<i>Marie-Elizabeth Mali </i> | Cabana BoyUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-13480064655961351842017-09-21T09:00:00.000-07:002017-12-08T19:48:23.051-08:00Risen from Her Bed of Troublesome SnacksWithout saying hello, in the restaurant<br />
my Great Aunt Sarah<br />
drives back another wad of tobacco,<br />
spits it into the pan of eggs.<br />
And just what the fuck else was she supposed to do?<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Jeffrey McDaniel</i> | The Quiet World<br />
<i>Robert Lowell</i> | My Last Afternoon with Uncle Devereux Winslow<br />
<i>Dara Wier</i> | Fear<br />
<i>Sylva Fischerová</i> | Eggs, Newspaper, and Coffee (trans. Sylva<br />
Fischerová and Stuart Friebert<br />
<i>Jayne Cortez</i> | RapeUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-39278094149852786562017-09-13T09:00:00.000-07:002020-04-12T15:06:00.950-07:00Lower Peninsula PastoralThe ward is quiet, the mothers delivered,<br />
all bafflement and loveliness. The still air,<br />
the sob at the base of the body.<br />
In the house in Detroit,<br />
dogs who pitch and yaw all night for a little water.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Elizabeth Spires</i> | The First Day<br />
<i>Paul Violi</i> | When to Slap a Woman<br />
<i>Andrew Joron</i> | Skymap Under Skin<br />
<i>Lawrence Joseph</i> | Sand Nigger<br />
<i>Jane Miller</i> | AdorationUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-56346148132107853442017-09-11T09:00:00.000-07:002017-12-08T23:16:56.512-08:00On This a Whole Kingdom HungThe mills locked their doors and I thought I heard voices.<br />
I had already been weeping quietly.<br />
<br />
A man sweating and stoking,<br />
the yellow hulk of Cats winding bay front chip yards—<br />
we were the fragrance of the idea of the meaning of not. We didn’t want destruction.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the sunlight off broken glass is everywhere.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Gabrielle Calvocoressi</i> | Late Twentieth Century in the Form of Litany<br />
<i>Patrick Donnelly</i> | Prayer at the Opera<br />
<i>Anthony Walton</i> | Third Shift<br />
<i>Michael McGriff</i> | Coos Bay<br />
<i>Adrian Blevins</i> | Why the Marriage Failed<br />
<i>Oliver de la Paz</i> | Hello,Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-85618725349938317652017-09-09T09:00:00.000-07:002020-04-12T15:06:06.602-07:00Matter Got Up in Costume as ItselfThe oleanders in your courtyard<br />
where they burn candles for you<br />
<br />
Failing yellow light<br />
leaves out subject and object<br />
<br />
To trust that last breath wings out something more than air<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Federico García Lorca</i> | Ballad of One Doomed to Die (<i>Romance<br />
del Emplazado</i>, trans. Langston Hughes)<br />
<i>Ishmael Reed</i> | Pocadonia<br />
<i>Karla Kelsey</i> | Fragile Ladder Barques, 10.3<br />
<i>Carlos Drummond de Andrade</i> | Looking for Poetry<br />
<i>Mark Doty</i> | Theory of the SoulUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-60649324311354988102017-09-08T09:00:00.000-07:002017-12-08T23:23:06.779-08:00Since Your Love DiedThe disobedient mind is the fruit of inactivity swaying upon<br />
petals on a wet, black bough<br />
drying inward from the edge.<br />
To know there’s no one here to save you:<br />
ah guess ah’ll go up Echo Mountain and crah.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Philip Whalen</i> | Many Colored Squares<br />
<i>Ezra Pound</i> | In a Station of the Metro<br />
<i>Edna St. Vincent Millay</i> | Ebb<br />
<i>Gabrielle Calvocoressi</i> | Save Me Joe Louis<br />
<i>Edward Field</i> | UnwantedUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-80709834813817232552017-09-07T09:00:00.000-07:002017-12-10T22:17:14.162-08:00Dark HarvestIt was late September. I’d just poured a glass of wine, begun<br />
to think I had sent the postman and his donkey<br />
out of the barn and<br />
into the static. And as I heard my father<br />
(someone dying of love, someone from whom time had taken<br />
flags and honking cars,<br />
the various and gathered families)<br />
howl down the spiral staircase<br />
<i>Come all ye faithless</i><br />
I drove into town to drink tea in the cafe. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Carol Ann Duffy</i> | Mrs Midas<br />
<i>Rod Jellema</i> | Letter to Myra Sklarew, Visiting Mekounida, on the Island of Evvoia,<br />
in Greece<br />
<i>Curtis Bauer</i> | A Splinter Becoming a Burning Plank<br />
<i>Kevin Clark</i> | Radio Fate<br />
<i>Louise Glück</i> | The Balcony<br />
<i>Gary Soto</i> | Envying the Children of San Francisco<br />
<i>David St. John</i> | The Swan at Sheffield Park<br />
<i>Albert Goldbarth</i> | Reality Organization<br />
<i>C. D. Wright</i> | The Secret Life of Musical Instruments<br />
<i>Robert Hass</i> | HappinessUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-27678429366290192282017-09-06T09:00:00.000-07:002024-02-17T21:12:28.033-08:00Gone Astray in Trackless WastesI no longer believed in the revolution<br />
but what is there for a man to do with his life?<br />
<br />
It gave purpose to my wanting to be alone.<br />
The aftermath is two people breathing.<br />
<br />
I am used up, a waste gas.<br />
And there are other, worse, symptoms.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Derek Wolcott</i> | The Schooner <i>Flight</i><br />
<i>Russell Edson</i> | Angels<br />
<i>Terry Ehret</i> | The Author of This Poem Will Grant an Interview<br />
<i>David Roderick</i> | Self-Portrait in 1969 (Summer)<br />
<i>Brian Spears</i> | Hurry<br />
<i>Andrew Feld</i> | Litte Viral SongUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-8599458043223473762017-09-05T09:00:00.000-07:002020-04-12T15:06:10.528-07:00After the Fire at Club Lobohombo, Mexico CityI post letters to my lost Mayan sisters<br />
waiting to be shaken open by some<br />
precarious thriver in the song-stung dark.<br />
Over the ear, a conch of voice and music<br />
was a sack full of torn wings beating.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>H. L. Hix</i> | Cy Twombly, “Night Watch”<br />
<i>Keetje Kuipers</i> | 4th of July<br />
<i>Joshua Corey</i> | Severance Songs, 2.1<br />
<i>Luis Cernuda</i> | Apologia pro Vita Sua (trans. Reginald Gibbons)<br />
<i>Larry Levis</i> | Earl the Chicken FarmerUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-4649775623165384002017-09-04T09:00:00.000-07:002020-04-12T15:06:14.361-07:00Incident Along Route 50In reality, the barn wasn’t clean, ninety men<br />
and a woman sobbing in a hospital gown, <i>Not fair.</i><br />
And look! That cowboy<br />
as he flicks his razor.<br />
Nine months later, my brother was born.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Norman Dubie</i> | Trakl<br />
<i>Laura Kasischke</i> | Warehouse of Prayers<br />
<i>Gloria Frym</i> | Looking for Trouble<br />
<i>Frank O’Hara</i> | Southampton Variations<br />
<i>Marilyn Hacker</i> | Days of 1944: Three FriendsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-37989747781950409332011-02-18T13:23:00.000-08:002020-04-12T15:06:17.664-07:00Nobility of Soul at Odds with Circumstance<div style="text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7_MHCWwnbJYqMKjHnl-18v4N4ST_dMjt87C291kbMV497o1qQQXr1mxjCDysvaCSETWTSkkwkACjlFbhuJJJLnZYHUuM74wCWSAqqImG6JQE66NEcC-LhpX7L93uToTrKgmkMTLlSbwA/s1600/Mom%252C+NYC%252C+March+1983.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7_MHCWwnbJYqMKjHnl-18v4N4ST_dMjt87C291kbMV497o1qQQXr1mxjCDysvaCSETWTSkkwkACjlFbhuJJJLnZYHUuM74wCWSAqqImG6JQE66NEcC-LhpX7L93uToTrKgmkMTLlSbwA/s200/Mom%252C+NYC%252C+March+1983.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HELYN JOYCE CALLAHAN<br />
February 18, 1924–January 17, 2011<br />
<i>A happy moment, New York City,<br />
March 1983</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
The body—it is so sad what happens to it.<br />
But all childhoods are hazardous.<br />
<br />
Falling through a grey film of failed memory,<br />
the children and their panic-stricken laughter.<br />
<br />
And in the narrowing tunnel,<br />
our earthly mother waiting sleeplessly<br />
to yield the last half hour of precious light.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Melissa Kwasny / <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=182093">Common Blue</a></i><br />
<i>Chase Twichell / <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=182178">A Mysterious Heart</a></i><br />
<i>Roberto Tejada / <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=239720">Dyspnea</a></i><br />
<i>Rachel Loden / <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=240574">Five Minute Agoraphobic Holidays</a></i><br />
<i>B. H. Fairchild / <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=25172">Flight</a></i><br />
<i>Sydney Lea / <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=240640">The Blainville Testament</a></i><br />
<i>May Sarton / <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=18055">A Country Incident</a></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-26255441121066265152011-01-15T06:00:00.000-08:002020-04-12T15:06:20.811-07:00Young Werther Contemplates Wahlheim in the Clear Light of Day(Fishouse Poets #3)Patience, I suppose: how some things must <i>be,</i><br />
or be slowly executed. I<br />
consider how the beloved’s<br />
patient, eventual, brittle, misshapen<br />
cracked talk, brothers to keep in shoes,<br />
might end the ease of this hour.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/karen_holmberg/soft_shell_crab.shtml">Karen Holmberg</a> / Soft Shell Crab</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/matthew_zapruder/after_reading_tu_fu_i_emerge_from_a_cloud_of_falseness.shtml">Matthew Zapruder</a> / After Reading Tu Fu, I Emerge from a Cloud of Falseness</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/leslie_mcgrath/hearing.shtml">Leslie McGrath</a> / Hearing</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/carey_mchugh/instrument_for_oversight.shtml">Carey McHugh</a> / Instrument for Oversight</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/gibson_fayleblanc/oakland_work_crew.shtml">Gibson Fay LeBlanc</a> / Oakland Work Crew</i><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1094768962"> </a><i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/molly_peacock/picnic.shtml">Molly Peacock</a> / Picnic</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-80047147428751593972011-01-13T06:00:00.000-08:002020-04-12T15:06:24.190-07:00Up Late(Fishouse Poets #2)Game after game in the flashlit dark.<br />
In our world when a woman cries<br />
No, <i>here,</i> yes <i>here,</i><br />
broken by yawns, exhausted,<br />
at whose mercy are we?<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/nickole_brown/riddle_riddle_marie.shtml">Nickole Brown</a> / Riddle, Riddle Marie</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/mark_yakich/green_zone.shtml">Mark Yakich</a> / Green Zone</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/seth_michelson/psalm_146.shtml">Seth Michelson</a> / Psalm 146</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/john_olivares_espinoza/riding_with_my_brother_to_the_dump.shtml">John Olivares Espinosa</a> / Riding with My Brother to the Dump</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/henrietta_goodman/gretel_in_the_tunnel.shtml">Henrietta Goodman</a> / Gretel in the Tunnel</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-3507005124811399802011-01-09T03:15:00.000-08:002020-04-12T15:06:27.427-07:00This Week: Poets from the Fishouse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-fMBnRsSBKJNrw9g2coATmgqYTbhynoTNpyWEIDFuYBPngTkKBv6TD0ARfpmq8-Jp1PydJ8BV6KLdBl_VFlBKUwQJvOzqFvR5gs9grNA4Br_HVh2Un3IVhcWUJVMd5b7zZYb7oANA50Q/s1600/Fishouse+FLAT.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-fMBnRsSBKJNrw9g2coATmgqYTbhynoTNpyWEIDFuYBPngTkKBv6TD0ARfpmq8-Jp1PydJ8BV6KLdBl_VFlBKUwQJvOzqFvR5gs9grNA4Br_HVh2Un3IVhcWUJVMd5b7zZYb7oANA50Q/s320/Fishouse+FLAT.png" width="320" /></a></div>
This week <b>CENTORAMA</b> offers baits and lures fashioned from poems by some of the amazing writers whose work is featured at <b><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/">From the Fishouse</a></b>.<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #0b5394;">
<i><b>Tuesday / 1.11</b></i></div>
Gabrielle Calvocoressi<br />
Patrick Donnelly<br />
Anthony Walton<br />
Michael McGriff<br />
Adrian Blevins<br />
Oliver de la Paz<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #0b5394;">
<i><b>Thursday / 1.13</b></i></div>
Nickole Brown<br />
Mark Yakich<br />
Seth Michelson<br />
John Olivares Espinosa<br />
Henrietta Goodman<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #0b5394;">
<i><b>Saturday / 1.15</b></i></div>
Karen Holmberg<br />
Matthew Zapruder<br />
Leslie McGrath<br />
Carey McHugh<br />
Gibson Fay LeBlanc<br />
Molly PeacockUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-69174891338536117162010-12-30T06:00:00.000-08:002020-04-12T15:06:30.431-07:00These Fine Things Which Separate Us from BeastsI would be assuming a great deal in saying<br />
I’d like to hold water in my cupped hands<br />
as we must hold all,<br />
swagger and lager and fully loaded.<br />
If this is a game then we have made it, unknowing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://mrsmetaphor.wordpress.com/2010/12/21/solstice-to-solstice/">Angela Doll Carlson</a> / Solstice to Solstice</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.webdelsol.com/Perihelion/svalina.htm">Mathias Svalina</a> / Red Plastic Cup</i><br />
<i><a href="http://cccreech.blogspot.com/2009/04/poem-for-jaheem-herrara-peace-of-gentle.html">C. Cleo Creech</a> / A Poem for Jaheem Herrara: The Peace of Gentle Waves</i><br />
<i><a href="http://jamesschwartz.towerofbabel.com/2010/10/11/last-night-a-drag-queen-saved-my-life/">James Schwartz</a> / Last Night a Drag Queen Saved My Life</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=239726">Samiya Bashir</a> / Catch</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-42269722815442449972010-12-06T19:15:00.000-08:002020-04-12T15:06:33.688-07:00Waking from Dreams “in a Solitude That Vibrates . . . ”<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtOwHOXowCCrRjtZbsol3i2UE2luoKbmd6YFgulb443R4X6LU7G4TJdiFC2uA4EH4UzZhQWTsC3qmVaFYDk1P-n3nlL2lfJ_kTGwrZb9vFwARYR6DHTVNsjP7sk3X1MrLMaojObTYHKeI/s1600/Honeybee+in+Big+Chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtOwHOXowCCrRjtZbsol3i2UE2luoKbmd6YFgulb443R4X6LU7G4TJdiFC2uA4EH4UzZhQWTsC3qmVaFYDk1P-n3nlL2lfJ_kTGwrZb9vFwARYR6DHTVNsjP7sk3X1MrLMaojObTYHKeI/s200/Honeybee+in+Big+Chair.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HONEY BEE (c. 1994–2010)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was not in the next day’s paper.<br />
<br />
You appear as if from the sea of nothing,<br />
and dead from a storm that wrecked the hive.<br />
<br />
I feel submerged, and <i>see</i> you,<br />
and live alone in the bee-loud glade.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/peter-dale-scott">Peter Dale Scott</a> / Coming to Jakarta, IV.v </i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.redroom.com/author/susan-browne/bio">Susan Browne</a> / Ode to Lily Jean</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/diane-wakoski">Diane Wakoski</a> / Black Leather Because Bumblebees Look Like It</i><br />
<i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeffrey_Skinner">Jeffrey Skinner</a> / Elegy with Yellow Boat</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=172053">William Butler Yeats</a> / The Lake Isle of Innisfree</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-38117268034585656762010-11-17T00:27:00.000-08:002020-04-12T15:06:38.547-07:00Who Will Sing of Them Now?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUfYaAZROlvcPWF9qX519DhYASZWsjNtB7Ac6ZL0nB94PgeIT8wNoOEefxYCJTJg48OPle_eEEsHRgzIqIT41kjrQLZDm0kQznNuPiUhwRHg3uRThOZ5MQxL-R_5aXF2j8o_m7zlCJeJo/s1600/Steve+Orlen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUfYaAZROlvcPWF9qX519DhYASZWsjNtB7Ac6ZL0nB94PgeIT8wNoOEefxYCJTJg48OPle_eEEsHRgzIqIT41kjrQLZDm0kQznNuPiUhwRHg3uRThOZ5MQxL-R_5aXF2j8o_m7zlCJeJo/s200/Steve+Orlen.jpg" width="182" /></a></div>
Rattle of silverware, and three clocks ticking<br />
On the grand stage at their appointed moments<br />
Pouring over time itself the pure distillate arias<br />
<br />
Praising a universe in which nothing happens<br />
<br />
In that eternal battle<br />
Relentless and unchanging<br />
No one wins or loses<br />
<br />
Through one body then another<br />
To let my eyes simplify again, and make no judgments<br />
To open the heart, only a little at a time<br />
<br />
Just beyond my reach, waiting to be called upon again<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=180565"><i>In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas</i></a><br />
<a href="http://www.slate.com/id/3414/"><i>Ode to Coal</i></a><br />
<a href="http://www.versedaily.org/songthekiss.shtml"><i>Song: The Kiss</i></a><br />
<a href="http://wordsfromotherpeople.blogspot.com/2010/02/man-alone-stephen-orlen.html"><i>A Man Alone</i></a><br />
<a href="http://avoidmuse.blogspot.com/2010/11/rip-steve-orlen.html"><i>Onomastics & the Falling Snow</i></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5737664216961136569.post-61221081197500614512010-11-15T06:00:00.000-08:002020-04-12T15:06:41.730-07:00This Forest Where No Deer Grazeand Roots Strike UpwardsThe tilt of fisted history<br />
that kick-starts their DNA to black and purple liquid life<br />
becoming little red birds<br />
and strange chantings—ashes, angels and dolls,<br />
a life in an arc of motion, oh Russian doll.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><a href="http://www.saltpublishing.com/books/smp/1876857943.htm">Jennifer Moxley</a> / Not on My Seashore</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.banthebomb.org/archives/education/poems.html">Mario Petrucci</a> / Ukritye</i><br />
<i><a href="http://contemporaryamericanvoices.wordpress.com/2008/11/">John Gallaher</a> / On Your Brilliant Escape</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.thing.net/%7Egrist/l&d/lcoleman.htm">Wanda Coleman</a> / </i>American Sonnets,<i> sonnet 17</i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.versedaily.org/2010/flood.shtml">Ellen Doré Watson</a> / Flood, According to Her</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0