Poetry

Information Desk

Robyn Schiff  

    You are an American Girl. Here you are in 
    an American Poem …

Worry

Vidyan Ravinthiran  

His father’s fists turned him mild as a Jain
to his son, me.

Leviathan

Vidyan Ravinthiran  

your phone is flashing with a work email;
our jobs aren’t safe and we still rent.

Study of Two Figures (Agave/Pentheus)

Monica Youn  

She said it was an Asian thing and then they stopped asking.

Four Days

Cornelius Eady

Since it didn’t happen the evening
Of whatever the hell Emmett Till did;

Deep Song

Cornelius Eady

These mother-fuckers,
These mother-fuckers
Won’t let me sing.

Sestina

William Virgil Davis

Tonight, there are no stars.
This huge hooded dark
is like a deep sleep

The Night’s Cascade

Garrett Hongo

Lunch breaks, summer I was 20 clerking for the City, I’d sit on marble benches
across from the glass palace of DWP, over at the Mark Taper,

Oracle

Warren Slesinger

The water worried me
when the gray face that floated over it
in lines and patches to the shore

Easier Done

Constantine Contogenis

I give her chances all the time — not to make
her the mom for me.  But I’m just passing through
her stop, on a middle track, seeing her go left
across my window while she stands on the platform,

Pax

Richard Kenney

So, Love, when that celebrated clarifier,
Chemotherapy, calls back—for us,

Afterlife

Richard Kenney

On time to the strike of a silent bell
inside the chapel of the cell

The Southwest Part of the Truth

Ioanna Carlsen

It’s true and it’s not true, it’s partly the light
that makes the bone-colored clouds
seem to web in shadows down the mountains,

My Enemy

David Danoff

Assassin, saboteur
inside me, let me be
able to endure
what you do to me.

Sunday with George

Elisabeth Murawski

They twirl and spin,
laughing, the almond trees
in blossom, her little one
humming a tune from Warsaw.

Eight Radioactive Tableaux (with Venus and Adonis)

Justin Quinn

There are no clouds. Thunder out of nowhere.
The boar herd at a gallop through the woods.
Haunch to haunch twisting through the brush and weeds
like shoals through seas, like starlings through the air.

The Reef

Rachel Trousdale

Just because it’s made doesn’t mean it’s anything
but natural. A thin line skirting the shore, no matter
how long, it appears tiny in the extent of
the ocean it inhabits, the water that is the only thing

Finalists

Geoffrey Hill

1: after Paul Éluard, ‘Couvre-feu’, 1942

 

So what big deal forbidden doors

so who came forth if no escape

Beauty

Sara Wallace

I went to the stylist
and asked her to cut off my heart
so she palmed my skull
and firmly tipped my head down

Summer Visitation

Eamon Grennan

In the June breeze our sycamore casts flickering shadows

“It’s Complicated”

Catherine Stearns

If you mean like the toxic material
coming down from the high plateau
in dense clouds that will change
the earth forever, or like the dark matter

Five Prose Poems

Charles Baudelaire

Translated by David Lehman

Le miroir

Un homme épouvantable entre et se regarde dans la glace.

Prodigal

Deborah Diemont

The front door opens to a faux wood floor.
Untie your shoes and leave them in the hall.

Ring

Debora Lidov

One drink in I asked my date about the ring:
copper, flat, snug band on his right-hand
fourth finger. He began to tell its secret.

Loose Talk

Katie Donovan

Nag, prattle, palaver -
he’s had enough
of loudmouthed chatter -
better to invest

Arcade

Esther Schor

The beauty of it’s also
the hell of it: our sharpest teeth

Shadow

Morri Creech

He got up. It was there. And it was growing
from much the same place it had been before;
it had followed him to sleep without his knowing
and, once he rose, had crept up to the door.

Eleanoir and Huff’s New Blues and Gospel

Nathaniel Mackey

—“mu” two hundred thirty-eighth part—

    The air lay lit with a kind of dread. Expec-
tancy’s arraignment it felt like, the oud’s
   outer inurement all there was, inside out.

Clay

Luis H. Francia

Throw the word on the poet’s wheel,
Write the mud on the potter’s desk.

From bone and ash I need to spin
shapes that sing to us of blood,

An Old Theme

Derek Mahon

I shall die in due course on a day of rain.
Not in the last bed by the exit, please,
with a loud sitcom on the gogglebox
but in an armchair during a sunshower