Tuesday, July 12, 2022
Friday, July 8, 2022
Photographs of photographs and Polaroids
of stacks of books on fragments
and photographs and pamphlets
on letters sent and imminent
collisions. What the body does not know
it wants. And the mind.
In the song I wrote,
I said I wanted to be
like you, but then
I pulled back.
I am afraid most of the time
of my own intensity.
Not its kinesis, its brilliant light
and energy, but that it might
I have tried my whole life
to contain it, hold it
back. Make myself
into the perfect song,
the most contained
poem. But now I am
letting go of all that.
I have taken to photographing
my every moment
in an attempt to locate
the place where I lost myself.
When the body and the mind conflate
or, rather, when the body and language.
That is the moment I have been waiting for.
Thursday, July 7, 2022
- Devin Johnston
In a deck chair
under castellated clouds
Campari and tonic
and through damp air
the gleam of a distant lake
the property of stillness
or tang of iron-heavy water
turrets and castellations
with a few acquaintances
and then always
in dry tones
of scuffed gravel
horseradish in vinegar
the snort before a sneeze
a piquant phrase
and wake of laughter
on wooded slopes
along the Cuivre
no more outrageous hopes
one mountain pale
Tuesday, May 10, 2022
June 7. To get a head start
by Joanne Kyger
Yea, but I'm too old
Yea, but I'm growing too old
To wait around this long
Nobody wants to sit with me
Forgive this interlude for a while: I became infinitely
glamorous and careless, like the best memory, of past
I often tell women's secrets to men
It was open, in the clear gray, morning. Babies
cries, and a dog barks, birds shrill from the top
of the trees.
I'm going to run away from all this.
I am going to enter into another dimension.
Oh my little head and hope. I am projected
ahead. I will realize the continuum from the past.
I will not be abusive, I am smitten in glory.
I am full of hopeful rushing. On into
the high out rocking waves.
Wednesday, May 4, 2022
Tuesday, April 26, 2022
Your beauty, which I lost sight of once
for a long time, is long,
not symmetrical, and wears
the earth colors that make me see it.
A long beauty, what is that?
that can be sung over and over,
long notes or long bones.
Love is a landscape the long mountains
define but don't
shut off from the
In fall, in fall,
your trees stretch
their long arms in sleeves
of earth-red and
sky-yellow, a little
lop-sided. I take
long walks among them. The grapes
that need frost to ripen them
are amber and grow deep in the
the way your beauty grows in long tendrils
half in darkness.
Monday, March 21, 2022
Song for Spring Equinox
It is the first day of spring, the children are singing
(they are supposed to be sleeping) the clock is ticking
the cats are waiting for supper, one of them pregnant
kittens to herald the spring, nothing is blooming
nothing seems to bloom much around farms, just hayfields and corn
farms are too pragmatic, I look at ads
for hydrangea bushes, which I hate they remind me of brooklyn
for chinese wisteria vines, which I can't picture
but they sound exotic and mysterious
a kind of blue purple, I decide I'll get some
will I be disappointed, will they be yellow?
will I hate the Shetland pony we are buying
will we run out of wholewheat flour this week
before a new supply drives up from the city?
oh, it is very like being a pioneer,
but then everything is in this country, and in the country
especially. it was like being a pioneer on 5th street, too
and houston street, and amsterdam avenue
and in brooklyn, under the streetlights growing up
rollerskating at dusk with stickball games in the street
was the most pioneery of all,
it is slightly boring,
it tastes a lot of the times crossword puzzle
and ordering things thru the mail, which never come
or turn out wrong, or come the wrong color (wisteria)
I can't blame Alan for planning to go to India
to free his kundalini, so that his ears peel
or something dreadful happens to his physique
we are built for the exotic, we americans, this landscape leaves us
as open as a piece of chocolate cream pie
Tuesday, February 8, 2022
Friday, January 21, 2022
Tuesday, January 18, 2022
by Suchi Govindarajan
To grow up without cold seasons is
to find an obsession dusted with snow
For too long, my sun kept drawing shadows
But in my dreams, I would see tree trunks
branching into fragile hands
my bare prayer held up against the white
I imagined the weighted blanket of it
how it might quieten my heart's chaos
make my longings more calm and austere
In days when sunspots flecked my lashes
and the sand felt blister-rough as though it
would fuse into glass and catch the glare,
I dreamt of becoming a migrant bird
compelled to find routes away from the sun
I would follow every winter wind and current
And as calendars faded to blue-ink endings,
I would fly to lands full of diffused light
Like the Earth, I too would complete my orbit
pulled by a strange and foreign love.
By Terese Svoboda
Issue no. 106 (Spring 1988)
At dusklight she slips
into acetate underclothing,
Has she slept
all day? Or is that housedress
draped over the hassock warm? From her motion,
one of submission, her pale arms
upraised, the slip sliding,
talc issues invisibly.
Mother is faceless so far up in the dark.
Just her torso glows,
and the color around her takes on the design
of a falling leaf, grey-yellow plaid.
From the mirror, she draws what little light
there is inside her, and sighs.
But she is really very young
and will think so later.
Now nothing can claim her.
I am quiet, all chrysalis,
hidden in her closet.
Madhuja'r jonmodiney lekha kobita - Anindya Chatterjee জুলাই মাসে, কোনও কোনও জন্মদিন আসে। ঘরের পাশে,ভিড়ের বাসে স্মৃতির ঘাসে, জলোচ্ছ...