Posts Tagged: Poetry

A Poem By Amit Majmudar

The Star-Spangled Turban

Hot pink frosting on my chocolate- cupcake noggin,

switched-on lightbulb- yellow, tulip- bulb topheavy

orange, sky-blue, bruise-blue, navy thought cloud, darkening:

Any towel, any shawl will serve as well to

bind this open wound atop me, mark me off as

not quite level- headed, tops on any watchlist.

It’s Old Glory that I choose this time: I pleat her,

sweep her, set her on my head as reverently as

any U.S. M.C. honor guard triangle

on a coffin.


A Poem By Kristina Ten


I have too many bones in my feet and I have too many teeth in my mouth and I put too much clout in follower count and you, my belly my lemon my grove

This house is split by computer cables This house has tables that drop every plate This house is thigh-chafed sun-spoilt and Christ-cradled and you, my wet mozzarella my love

And you, sugar pill pilled sweater sweet jam And you, my jelly meat suckled and shorn And you, my kill and my kill and my kill and my

City’s dumpling makers all went on strike My city is spite gold brass Stoli commercials My city is [...]


A Poem by Sophia Dahlin

When Relinquish on a Star

Of June singing, of Monday singing, of losing you by the wayside singing I never noticed losing you Monday in June, tra la Of March singing, of relics singing of bringing it home the first time singing I invited you home to worry my mother, tra la Sweet treats in the crisper, lo mein on the counter for hours biscuits I punched out of dough for the house to devour Of Rebecca singing, of the concert singing of losing you at the concert singing Intermixing too rapidly for my sexual attention span tra la of quickness singing, of sinning singing, of a longlost girl Friday [...]


A Poem by Laura Eve Engel


My body is afraid of your body when your body moves to move away. My body is a theme party that’s found a deeper way to care about its guests and when they leave. It’s me and not my body that gets the words of the song wrong, My body lies over the ocean, though it’s my body that gets up now to turn off the television. On it, two bodies who aren’t your body read news that pertains to other bodies and are proper inside their clothing. I or is it my body knows when it’s time to make [...]


A Poem By Susan Lewis

The Original Self-Pleasure Equation

& other inconsiderate lilies. Or any mineral aspiring to ambulate. Which is not to say living in close quarters. Leaves rubbing & rustling, promiscuous breeze egging them on. To carry on tastefully until the bitter end. To stay on the lookout for aught nubile in negligée. Not to be neglected like the young & juicy fancy their feelings (to the swell of strings). In other words America & its discontents, table of. Quantity, quality, & other mysterious divides. Yet another veiled Islamic reference. No rest for the wary. No wrest for the offended infidel smashing bottles on officious effigies. To be faithful & timid, to redirect [...]

A Poem By Lisa Lubasch

[come to me, sweet stranger]

come to me, sweet stranger, and make of me a moment, a nostalgia, to give to the wind, to give to the one, who is standing there, at the meeting place, where the safety is immense, and not to tangle with, where the sentence can arrive, as though through a spaciousness, surrounding her, through its particulars, through its split, integument, intangible, what she will take, what she will have, to wander, with, over the paths, with their names in tow, in time, a morning, a motive,

come to me, sweet stranger, and make of me a ruthlessness, out of the fatigue, a furlough or [...]


A Poem By Kirsten Smith

The Valley of I Hate Myself

After a few years of You can have me if you don’t hurt me and You can kiss me if you promise to leave soon, I pack my stuff and head south. I drive past the ranch style homes of I like to watch it burn and the freakish dust bowl of If I can’t have you no one will, and into the valley of I hate myself. Forget the bad weather and the dead weight of ghosts, the plus sides make themselves immediately clear: if you plant something, it is almost certain to grow, if you want to live off the land, there [...]


A Poem by Maureen Miller

Voices from the Field

He reigns over me like a meadowlark in the meadowlands. Underground wiretap. They buried my heart under the stadium stands. Some of us have to work for a living. Saviour, my sin, my paisan! Pobody,not even the nerfect,has a fetish for his peeling calloused hands.

He sticks it in me with his workman's hands. I want a man with a ruddy tinted hand. I want a man with a slowhand.

Do you venerate your dad? Who watches Watchung Avenue? My prayer hands fuss Holstein Manti mantilla. Squawkbox mezzo soprano while I kneel at altar rail bands.

My turnpike binoculars see the ancestral homeland tenements. Semper sperans. [...]


A Poem by Alexander Chee


I don’t even know what to tell you about the fog or anything else for that matter what did you think was coming what did you think mattered        what did you think there was something we were all going to do right something we made in pieces in the dark we kept it secret we said it would be better that way we didn’t even look we forgot the way that was better we forgot all the other ways too even all the shitty ones but the pieces are there

what would it take for you to really give up on someone I wrote this in [...]


Men Unsettled by Woman's Poems

Patricia Lockwood's new book of poetry, Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals, came out last week. There have been a handful of reviews in mainstream outlets, like in the New York Times, where Dwight Garner calls it "a satirical work that nonetheless brings your heart up under your ears." His criticism, such as it is, notes, "When her poems miss, which they frequently do, their ideas seem larval and merely cute." It concludes, "little hairs on my back rose often while reading 'Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals,' as if it were the year of the big wind. That’s biological praise, the most fundamental kind, impossible to fake."

But then are there some [...]


A Poem by Max Winter

Ebenezer Makes a Prediction

The light goes on The light goes off A man sells a banana A man sells a pear The weather is fair today Tomorrow it might not be so fair You are singing You are eating You are disrobing You are sleeping The world is turning The world is drying up It is forgetting It is remembering There is a small beep After the beep is silence


A Poem By Bo McGuire

Super Moon

i take the feeling of you—stomp it out with my black throat— throw it down the cement hatch

it bleeds in gold rushes

i’ll be up all night—moon headed—stiff as the wind i sniff until i have enough desert in me knifing the boy inside a man—i moan

this is how i know i am cowboy—my bones screaming a strut to the sinners’ shrine

in the barrio—ghosts i used to know who won’t moan me now—i’ve become the mirror i watch the moon pull back my skin


A Poem By Richard Siken

The Stag and the Quiver


Once there was a deer called stag. A white breasted, a many pointed. He refused to still when he halted, the hooves in his mind were always lifted. Everything comes close, the branches slide. In a clearing made of cleavings, stag sees another stag. They watch each other, they share no story. I will not cross you and you must move on. There is nothing else. It reminds me of some tale, stay with me to remember, it reminds me of where I was going without you.


The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then paints the targets around them. [...]


Robopoetics: The Complete Operator's Manual

Here’s a game: which of these poems was written by a human, and which by a computer?

A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the daffodil I've heard the flag to-day I've heard the hunter tell; 'Tis but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is almost done, And sunrise grows so near sunrise grows so near That we can touch the despair and frenzied hope of all the ages.


Red flags the reason for pretty flags. And ribbons. Ribbons of flags And wearing material Reason for wearing material. Give pleasure. Can you give me the regions. The regions and the land. The regions and wheels. All [...]

A Poem by Mark Conway

in head stones

the sun is real but lies :: it’s much older than its age; by now the excess visions have all been booked / the best are overused… the river runs through dinkytown accepting all its slops our town fish live – celebrities – scavenging on chemicals and tripe / what they eat helps them eat up what they eat: sweet genetic engineering; we posit they prefer this rise in appetite… anymore there are no visions / no visors needed neither nor sun screen to block the once- anticipated vision burn / oh shit mon petit there simply isn’t time: the sun runs like honey through the molten [...]


A Conversation with Patricia Lockwood

I barged into the men’s, and felt stares burning hard like reading or noon, felt them looking me up and over, felt them looking me over and down, and all the while just holding their pens,     they do it different oh no they don’t, they do it standing up

It’s a bit uncanny how these lines in “The Feeling of Needing a Pen” a poem in Patricia Lockwood’s new book, Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals, echo recent criticisms by a handful of discomfited reviewers. “They make me feel like the guy who ruins all the fun,” wrote Jonathan Farmer in Slate, in his review. Adam Plunkett, writing for the [...]


A Poem by Andrew Zawacki

Dixie Pixie Sonnet

Solar panel, a Fresnel lens, 5 lb bag of M&Ms & we could 3-D print a clone of you

Pell mell all hell & ill will will break loose If you don’t wear your cheap synthetic, frilly fuchsia princess dress, Faux glass high heel sequin slippers clacking on the tile

In your lifetime, the Arctic will have been

You’re a frog no you’re a frog

To conjugate in a future imperfect : will have been ongoing, once

Daughter you’re borderline pixilated, perhaps from the Swedish dialect pyske— “fairy,” ca. 1630—or Cornwall Celtic for “pixie-led” : confused, bewildered, unbalanced, astray ; or an actress as stop-motion marionette, in [...]


A Poem By Robert Andrew Perez


on film, it’s a fountain lit from behind erupting or a story-high wave’s motion barely foiled by indifferent coastline. that is, always water, always upward then the inevitability of gravity, always light then always less light.

not in the movie, what is bright is internal. usually in a dim room, though sometimes pitch dark, the brightness can never be seen.

perhaps that’s its source of power: an unseeable phantom with unmistakable presence, a presence that violates the peace of the body then leaves, abruptly, only an asymptotal approach to numbness we call linger.


A Poem By Annelyse Gelman


                                             after Anthony Opal’s cento sonnets

In the wet dreaming room seventeen and a half boys masturbate on seventeen and a half make-believe beds, sleeping hands tied round seventeen and a half blue roses blooming to the organ-grinder’s song. In every way, they are their sustained melodic breakdown, un-adorned emotion cast off outside our atonal scudding. O let me dream not the logic of boats but of rooms billowing with brackish wine, you and me lost at sea, reed-deep in the technical journals. We are a helpless make-believe presence deteriorating except in alcohol. Do you want me to take off my human myself? Sailboat, frail boat—ugly and marvelous body! There [...]


Two Poems By Aaron Fagan


Way before the title fights, I dressed in my older sister’s Clothes I stole and danced And hummed and kicked up Dust for neighborhood boys— As they sat in Hawkin’s field, Rolling corn silk in newspaper To smoke, while I, in reverie, Began a whorling version of “Are You Washed in the Blood?” For the last smithereens of me To be born beyond a god of mine.