The mute boy was dragging the great stalled clock from his father’s study to the trash heap that smoldered at the edge of the woods when an old man with a stick chased him. Back when the boy’s father was alive, he’d tried to console his son, and maybe himself as well, by telling him…
Great things begin In the periphery. Meanwhile my father Works third shift At the mustard plant. He’s around my age. He’s finished For the night. He revs his truck, Waiting for the heat. The ladder shakes In its rack on top. The heat is dusty, Coming on. All this Can happen Without us, just Out…
It is my pleasure to nominate Nuar Alsadir. I have been a great admirer of her work for many years now. With echoes of Rumi and Hafiz, her poems are a delicate mix of the quotidian and the profound. In witty, vibrant, always surprising turns, she reveals to us the weight of each fleeting moment….
Of Memory I. Messala Corvinus forgot his own name II. One, by a blow with a stone, forgot all his learning. Another, by a fall from a horse, forgot his mother’s name and kinfolk. A young student of Montpellier, by a wound, lost his memory, so that he was fain to be taught the letters…
“The evident shift of pronoun (what I now mean by ‘we’) is a clear question about place.” —J. H. Prynne “Don’t talk about it—be about it.” —Busta Rhymes I’ve somehow hummed myself to your darling world. I would do if you weren’t bent on the sods where you ran me human & blew towns unwise…
I’m sitting in a London lecture theater and thinking of my mother, dead just these three weeks— and by the way, reader, this will not, repeat, not, be one more crappy poem about a dying mother!— as I listen to Dr. David Parker speaking on “Love and Death in Dickens,” how the…
Ms. Maclay has a superb lyric gift, a remarkable imagistic clarity, and a constant sense of invention. Her recent prose poems—a departure for her—strike me as some of the most gracious and compelling of the genre. She is melding the concerns of her more fiercely lyric pieces with a more elongated music phrasing, and the…
I: I’d rather have a granddaughter who’s a whore than a grandson who’s a faggot like you. In the empty parking lot of St. Jude’s Church in Westchester, on a summer day, she lets go and falls to the gritty pavement while I pedal and pedal and glide without training wheels for the first time….
Then I wouldn’t prefer the California wine, its big sugar, big fruit rolling down my tongue, a cornucopia spilled across a tacky tablecloth. I’d prefer the French, its smoke and rot. Said Cézanne: Le monde—c’est terrible! Which means, The world—it bites the big weenie. People sound smarter in French. The Japanese prefer the crescent moon…
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