desire prize ambition lakeside lupine, clear place— —— For a minute prizes didn’t matter because the black and white spider sat in the daisy. Two ducks along the shore that the ice storm had ravaged, so that there were more blue lupine than before— And in fact everything was more…
Chase Twichell, The Snow Watcher, poems: Twichell’s fifth book presents an extraordinary sequence of poems that asks a single obsessive question: What is the self? This is a radical reenvisioning of what makes us human rather than animal. (Ontario)
from “The Changing Face of AIDS” The day he came to give his estimate, the rap he played came echoing amidst the tall Victorians that line our street— a jarring rumble, even in the cave that they create. He wore a rumpled shirt emblazoned with his name. “I’m Rafael— it’s nice to meet you, Dex.”…
I saw them everywhere: in the backyard spiraling up inside the pale lilacs, invisible in the hall closet where old books were stored, even playing in the fireplace ash. Late at night, I’d bump into them in the bathroom. The tile floor was icy and they were on their knees, all those homeless spirits, blowing…
He was believed by his peers to be an important poet, But his erotic obsession, condemned and strictly forbidden, Compromised his standing, and led to his ruin. Over sixty, and a father many times over, The objects of his attention grew younger and younger: He tried to corrupt the sons of his dearest friends; He…
Derek Walcott, What the Twilight Says, essays: In his first prose collection, Walcott brilliantly and lyrically discusses the works of Lowell, Brodsky, and other writers, and the state of West Indian literature and culture. (FSG)
Two months after she died, Billy asked: How’s Lynda doing? Billy, I said, she died, remember? Under the weight of supper’s constellation, the table wavered. Manic, he’d cook and then he’d insist on cleaning up: it calms me. Just now remembering, I remember, embarrassed, he’s dead, too. What’s the distance between a source and its…
Inside ourselves, inside ourselves so long we are engravened there. Inside the hot streets mazing from the Suq to fractious cul-de-sacs, piss smell & whitewashed alleyways, mules & taxi radios throbbing Rai & still inside ourselves. (Still with our own canopic jar— pulsing from its negative …
Alan Williamson, Res Publica, poems: The title sequence of Williamson’s new collection serves as a stunning elegy for Vietnam-era America and the war’s aftermath of media saturation, multiculturalism, and violence. (Chicago)
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