By Pierre Joris
wake up in pre-
dawn Brooklyn,
make water, heat water, squeeze
lemon, crush home-grown (at Joseph’s
on 68th…
dawn Brooklyn,
make water, heat water, squeeze
lemon, crush home-grown (at Joseph’s
on 68th…
Explore Poems: Epistle
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- By Sharon OldsI love the conversations we have
after making love—of course it’s just me, making
love to myself, talking to you,
loving you—though I do not really
know you, so I guess not loving you—
craving the dream of knowing you.
“When will I be able to... - By Sarina RomeroJorge, no matter where we go together
there is always a great national myth bearing down.
The one I come from claims three thousand years
of history. The government funds artists to prove this.... - By Tishani DoshiSo far from Worcester, Massachusetts.
Elizabeth—you, here! At my dentist's
in Madras, sitting with pressed knees,
leafing through back copies of Femina.
Teeth haven't changed much, except
now we have comfort sedation for root
canals, so there's little reason to cry,
which doesn't occlude the possibility
for epiphany, just... - By Anne SextonI am surprised to see
that the ocean is still going on.
Now I am going back
and I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would
and I have made it this far
as I said I would
and I am on... - By Sandra Maria EstevesTo Whom It Does Concern:
Could we please have just one space flight,
one nine-million dollar adventure into the great breath,
so that we could divide the loaves and... - By Robert LowellForty years ago we were here
where we are now,
the same erotic May-wind blew
the trees from there to here—
the same tang of metal in the mouth,
the dirt-pierced wood of Cambridge.
Sometimes
you are so much younger than your face,
I know I am seeing... - By Louise BoganI came here, being stricken, stumbling out
At last from streets; the sun, decreasing, took me
For days, the time being the last of autumn,
The thickets not yet stark, but quivering
With tiny colors, like some brush strokes in
The manner of the pointillists;... - By Danez Smithdear suicide
how is the war? is it eating?
tell me of the girls charging
backwards into dumb tides
death’s wet mouth lapping
their ankles, knees, eyebrows.
tell me of the sissies like drunk
fireworks, rocketing into earth
afterimage burned into river
& cement memory.
how is the war? does... - By James K. BaxterThere was a message. I have forgotten it.
There was a journey to make. It did not come to anything.
But these nights, my friend, under the iron roof
Of this old rabbiters' hut where the traps
Are still hanging up on nails,
Lying in... - By Linda BierdsDear One,
Do you have the time? Can you take
the time? Can you make
the time?
To visit me? The hospital doors have opened to spring,
and its land is high, dear one, each slope
with a vapor of crocuses. Its citizens, alas,
are low. Despondent, in... - By Stephen SandyAfter the declaration by emperor
to stop the war
many people in Tokyo killed themselves,
for instance, in front of the imperial palace.
But few people knows those facts.
Hence you must teach me
where you got the news or what sort of book
gave you the... - By W. S. Graham1
This is only a note
To say how sorry I am
You died. You will realize
What a position it puts
Me in. I couldn’t really
Have died for you if so
I were inclined... - By James SchuylerDear Kenward,
What a pearl
of a letter knife. It's just
the thing I needed, something
to rest my eyes on, and always
wanted, which is to say
it's that of which I
felt the... - By Alexander PopeShut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in... - By Jill McDonoughThe night we got bashed we told Rusty how
they drove up, yelled QUEER, threw a hot dog, sped off.
Rusty: Now, is that gaybashing? Or
are they just calling you queer? Good point.
Josey pitied the fools: who buys a perfectly good pack... - By William E. StaffordAll the Sioux were defeated. Our clan
got poor, but a few got richer.
They fought two wars. I did not
take part. No one remembers your vision
or even your real name. Now
the children go to town and like
loud music. I married a... - By Joshua BeckmanDear Angry Mob,
Oak Wood Trail is closed to you. We
feel it unnecessary to defend our position,
for we have always thought of ourselves
(and rightly, I venture) as a haven for
those seeking a quiet and solitary
contemplation. We are truly sorry
for the inconvenience.
Signed,
... - By Tess GallagherI have had to write this down
in my absence and yours. These
things happen. Thinking
of a voice added
I imagine a sympathy outside us
that protects the message
from what can’t help,
being said.
The times you’ve kept
your secret, putting on
glasses or glancing into a page
with... - By Doug AndersonDear Martín:
In Izalco, while Christ waits for Easter
in his glass tomb in the cathedral
a single long note is blown on a trumpet
en el parque central. Los perros flacco
forage at the feet of la gente.
Los poetas mount the stage in a...