Poetry

  • Poetry

    Two Poems by David Kirby

    Our Fathers Give Birth to Themselves

     

    I am eight and riding the bus with my dad, and he tells a man

    across the aisle to stop doing whatever it is that he’s doing,

    and the other man starts to swing at my father, who says something

    in the man’s ear that makes him lower his hand and get off

    at the next stop. “What did you say to him?” I ask,

    but my father just shakes his head,

  • Poetry,  Translation

    Three Poems by Rubén Merriwether Peña (translated from the Chilean Spanish by David Rock)

     

    I’m Pretty Sure I Saw You

     

    I’m pretty sure I saw you
    at the end of the world,
    trembling under the weight of your perfections.
    Your endless eyes like a wellspring
    of second guesses, trompe l’oeil of Venus
    eclipsing everything.

    I’m pretty sure I saw you
    on the road to tomorrow,
    going the other way, farm girl of these
    my most fruitful illusions, patroness of hunters
    with empty hands.

    I’m pretty sure I saw you
    kneeling in the church
    of a misguided God,

  • Poetry

    Sonnet of Little Faith by William Fargason

    The rain pressing the maple leaves looks
    like broken green piano keys. This view
    out my bedroom window, this TV without
    sound. I prayed for snow, not wet sunlight.

    In a clearing, I once asked God to hold
    my sadness and was told to build
    a bigger heart. A bigger ark. A better window
    to clean the smudges off each morning.

    In the maple tree, a cardinal looks covered
    in its own blood. He sees himself in the dirty glass
    and tries to attack his shade. For two hours.

  • Poetry

    Two Poems by Lindsay Young

    Seven, Going on Nothing

     

    It was my sister’s birthday eve,
    the anticipation as big an event as the real thing,
    even for me, who always got a sympathy gift
    to curb the Little Sister envy.
    I got to see the surprise cake my mom had chosen,
    fresh out of a glossy flip book at the store.
    A supermodel cake, impossibly symmetrical
    and airbrushed heavily with icing.
    I couldn’t help myself,
    I had to sneak down to the fridge that night
    just to get a second look.
  • Corona Chronicle,  Poetry

    Negation # 19 by Alistair McCartney

    Medium: aesthetic distancing, epidemiology

     

    John Keats did not die from the Coronavirus.

    Grammatically speaking, one does not

    Die from the virus:

    As a direct cause of death,

    One dies of it.

    One dies from an indirect agent, for example,

    He died from falling down the Spanish Steps.

    John Keats never entered the Prada store

    Near the Spanish Steps.

    Though epidemiologically speaking, in terms

    Of viruses and the blurriness

    Of direct/indirect causes,

  • Poetry

    Catch by Allison Cobb

    What moment was

    the moment 

    my mom died. 

    We weren’t sure

    my dad and I—

    we hold that

    hard gift close

    between—the

    us that makes 

    us selves who

    stood beside 

    her birdlike

    curled in—

    Oh. It is 

    a moment—breath

    and then

    it stops—that’s

    real, declare

    the time—we had

    a clock there, red

    with numbers—

    Mom.