By Abner Dormiendo
Translated By Ethan Chua
I was dragged to by my feet,
memories misled me
with their leavings, an engkanto
made my native …
memories misled me
with their leavings, an engkanto
made my native …
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- By David HernandezFirst, the shirt—
my canvas—this black T
I grip, tug up
over my head, and lay
square on the autumn … - By Abner Dormiendokung saan ako dinala ng aking mga paa,
latak ng alaalang nililigaw ako
na parang engkanto,
na parang… - By Shireen MadonIt’s as though the birds all know each other, and how naively
they seem to believe the world will go… - By Reed TurchiDeltaic deposits deepen hues—
not green, but that green,
not blue, but that blue—
In the small museum,
a… - By Raymond AntrobusMy phone memory is full
of canvases I have cried in front of—
circles, holes—
Shadows on water.
___… - By Wen GuTranslated By Wang PingRain breaks on black rocks
Stars fall, one by one, on blue stones
A thousand years, ten thousand years… - By Wen Gu黑色的岩石上，雨珠碎裂
青色的岩石上，星星一滴一滴溅落
一千年、一万年，古老的风在唱:
“一万个、一千个，相似的夜晚”
骆驼的背后，有历史的风暴升起
山羊的唇角，留着沙葱花的清香
别问我们祖先们的秘密
闪电已经刻在… - By Rainer Maria RilkeTranslated By Stephen MitchellWe cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with… - By Ama CodjoeWhat if, Betye, instead of a rifle or hand
grenade—I mean, what if after
the loaded gun that takes two hands
to fire, I lay down the splintered broom
and the steel so cold it wets
my cheek? What if I unclench the valleys
of my... - By Nick MakohaSAMO© first appears as a tag on a New York
City wall in 1978 two blocks down from Aswad
bookstore… - By Nick Makohai. samo© as an alternative to blah ... blahblahblah. blahzooey ... bblahblah quasi-blah ... etc.
(in… - By Harryette MullenWhen we come together, what shapes
the space around, defines the ground between us?
Which hand sketches… - By Kwame Dawesthe wounds of a walk foot man ii
On a flight from perpetually clogged and flatly bright LA
to the proudly humble and satisfyingly depressed
St. Paul,... - By Cyrus CassellsThat was the season I couldn’t think or write indoors,
the garrulous springtime every strophe,
every felicitous story’s pulse
could only be crafted in tranquil cloisters,
illuminating belvederes, or rambling villas.
Luckily, it was an unbridled spring,
all immoderate daisies and sunlit pediments,
a bustling April, May,... - By Cole SwensenOn one side of the pond, a woman heads west in stone, while on the other, it’s a man heading east, but with the same extravagant gestures of headlong flight—one leg thrown back and both hands launched forward. And sometimes...
- By Jodie HollanderThings are growing strange these days,
like Van Gogh’s yellow trees. Oh, do not
be surprised by these yellow immensities,
how out of proportion things in the picture
seem. What you see in a way makes sense:
the enormous, barren trees eclipsing
the unimportant buildings at... - By Maurya SimonDelirium in the downtown mall today:
Burt Reynolds! All the henna-haired girls
sneer, while their mothers, enthralled, say,
“I saw you in this, I saw you in that–
you were marvelous, simply... - By D. A. PowellFirstly to confess lack of nearly all perspective.
Eye sees things at the ends of stalks of the mind
planted in the dull fat head and facing forward.
Sees things flatly and lacks the way round.
Consider this a lesson in how to see.
As... - By Tea GerbezaI dip my paper strip in colours of scoliosis, white
my spine, mounted snow-covered
heart fields in the midground against rolling lung hills
the foreground, a gold crouching
sinew what I thought to be a ruin of stretched canvas
all whirls of grey, I carry...