Poetry

Recommendation: I was taken with Christina’s poems when I first heard them, and when I read them my sense of her extraordinary talent was confirmed. She seems to me quite simply one of the most promising younger poets I have run across in years, and it is gratifying to see that she is quickly achieving…

Recommendation: 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…

Recommendation: Angie Hogan’s poems are marked by a clear and sardonic intelligence, a wit that is reflected in the suppleness of line and crisp allure of her images. Although her subject matter is often difficult, she is never sentimental, eschewing the easy emotional tug for an unflinching poetic eye. “Paint me into the set of…

Recommendation: I find her work full of life—carefully observed, and expressed in language that is equally alive to gesture and nuance. Her poems surprise and satisfy, as when “used friends/look new in their unused clothes” or a wedding guest whispers a phrase the reader first takes as an epithet, then realizes it is meant as…

The glass shone cold with water fresh from somebody’s old “family spring” west of the Blue Ridge. I drank half in one continuous gulp—not greed, but because the day was hot. Then, out of breath or the telephone rang, I don’t remember— I stopped. I put the glass down to mist on the counter as…

In the dream there’d been difficulty— tidal wave topside while elsewise the cat had to be taken away and left yet again on a farm framed by a row of small houses. A tangled mass hissed and we woke and went on and found a pay phone, called the weather station. Wondered what was for…

Generous I may have been, amnesiac I became. Autumn fattened and thinned; I stared at the clock’s senseless hands. I let the girl in the market make change. I looked at my lists of medicines and the bottles on the shelf, but they seemed separate. In the bathroom mirror my face was suddenly antediluvian who…

What if they could speak?: the pawn shop menorahs       and samovars, the cherubs torn from their heavens, suspended forever in limbo, hanging       by five black strings thickened in dust, their gold wings flaking so close to earth; the jewel-       shaped chandeliers unmoored from ceilings; the salty waves in stasis on the black…

For a while I was dropped but I’m back on the assembly line. My boss is the Muse, who cites me for laziness and other offenses. I confess I try on the words in the back room sometimes, do a jig in front of the mirror, and cringe at the difference between what I am…