Gray cloud like a sweater pulled over the heart of the moon. High-napped purple sky. Why are so many friends Leaving or getting left behind? Mao’s anti-sparrow campaign: to kill and eat the birds That were eating the grain. Winter sun drifts away Leaving thin taffy light. Venus Mercury Jupiter— Three pearls in the morning…
Maura Stanton, Life Among the Trolls, poems: The cool, elegant surfaces of the narratives and lyrics in Stanton’s third collection conceal fiery depths. She penetrates the disguises which cloak the Iago-like figures-friends, bosses, lovers, colleagues-who manipulate our world, and who would like to remake us in their image. (Carnegie-Mellon)
Bobby Bell’s fingers numbered four to a hand. His thumb and pointer were identical to God’s, but the other two were just fleshy stubs, stunted and fused on each slender paw. He was a dumb kid, besides, if progress in school is a fair measure. He sized me up my first week in town, then…
Gina had all the symptoms: sleep disturbances, hot flashes, irritability, weight gain, loss of libido, aching joints, and heart palpitations. The one she complained of most was hot flashes, which she dealt with by throwing off her clothes and cursing. As far as Evan was concerned, her irritability was the worst symptom; she was increasingly…
John Clare wrote poems on scraps of paper, erased them with bread he ate afterwards. When he ran out of scraps he wrote in his hat. When he ran out of bread he ate grass.
The silhouette of a mountain. Above it a dark halo of rain. Dusk’s light fading, holding on. He thinks he’s seen some visible trace of some absent thing. Knows he won’t talk about it, can’t. He arrives home to the small winter pleasures of a clothing tree, a hatrack, his heroine in a housedress saying…
1 We got up at dawn, ignored the yolky sun, loaded our navy-blue Austin with suitcases, and then drove straight to the coast, stopping only on the verge of Sarajevo, so I could pee. I sang communist songs the entire journey: songs about mournful mothers looking through graves for their dead sons; songs about the…
She would stand in that place where pilgrims and petitioners who craved God waited for her answers. Intermediary, she would pace as if chained to it: the division in mind. She was no go-between, finally. Look at it, she was Sophia or Ruah, she was hokhmah. Her shopping cart full of bird masks, low-watt light-…
When Bodhidharma came from the West, for nine years he sat, face-to-wall. A student asked old Yang-chi, “What could this possibly mean?” “He was Indian,” Yang-chi replied with a grin, “he spoke no Chinese.” Chuang Tzu says, “If you follow dictates of an accomplished heart, then you have found a teacher. And who can fail…
No products in the cart.