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Poetry

Poetry

Rockport, Massachusetts, July 1999

I step inside a late 1990s photograph—no, not a Polaroid     with its hallucinated wash of color— Making my grand entrance in the diaphanous light     navy horizons darker than any of my native...
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Poetry

Five Poems

Dear Person You Think You Are Ask the person you think you are if she needs to lie down on...
Poetry

Personal

The elevated words of sorrow the priest says in the church seem to comfort some whose losses are private and probably immeasurable. If you...
Poetry

Train Overflowing

One man dug into the last seat as though to disappear & I didn’t know my husband was dying Lovers returned...
Poetry

Death of James Dean

The one who is rarely, if ever, discussed is Donald Gene Turnupseed, the driver who collided with James Dean on the 13th...

Self-Portrait as M.C. Escher Drawings

Poetry Avatar photo Elly Katz -
Kaleidoscopes in the eyes fracture her clavicles onto the ceiling, his stubble projected onto the wall across the room. Flower vases hang in the air. Everything is where nothing is. It’s...

Unhinged

Poetry Emily Hunerwadel -
Desperationis the goth cousin of zany,zany is mania’sslutty little sister,and the tiny producersliving behind my eyesare having a hard timepinpointing which roleto type-cast me...

The Art of the Found Poem: Interview With Nazifa Islam

Interview Editors -
Nazifa Islam is the author of the poetry collections Searching for a Pulse (Whitepoint Press, 2013) and Forlorn Light: Virginia Woolf Found Poems (Shearsman...

Rungs for Birds

Poetry Avatar photo Jen Maynard Campbell -
The process of growing brancheslooks painful,brutal even.I gaze upat this treeand the branches arespears.Did they erupt from the tree  in ecstasy,or were they receivedwith much...

What We Do When the Power Comes Back On

Poetry Ace Boggess -
Empty the freezer of meats in foil, many from lost origins. Have we eaten lion? Does the black bear howl with regret? What of the skunk &...

Gestures Toward Life

Poetry Avatar photo Nazifa Islam -
a found poem: The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath To write is a kind of madness when God is without meaningthe mind slack with solitudeand...
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