Posts Tagged: The Poetry Section

A Poem By Lisa Cattrone


I will not think about tripe. I will not think about tripe and its opulent crate of brown sponge. I will not think about tripe because I don’t want tripe to be a thought of me stored in my dimpled entrails. I don’t want to be tripe boiled and thought about or fattened with grotesque drippings of phrene from head bending like tripe and its deep tube of encyclopedic justice. If tripe plumps I don’t want to eat just the fleshy leaves of cabbage growth. I don’t want your vegetable and arborescent creed to halve the pomegrantian blisters filled with red tropes and white homeomeries of advancement. When I [...]


A Poem By Alex Dimitrov

Lindsay Lohan

It’s a cold rehearsal before we all drive off. The ride out is mindless and short on goodbyes. And in the flurry of parties she lost her passport. A slow smoke, a think in the old car… how they moved through their places and phrases and onto the bedroom where mostly we kept it all in. People won’t tell you, but if you lose enough things you do become something. All day the water endlessly filters so it’s not the same pool. In the morning our photos looked darker than us and the subject we were was a gamble (I know). The night winds came through and the [...]


A Poem By Lisa Olstein

Consider Yourselves All “Debbie”

Dear Debbie, why is it so hard to understand? The accident was me. It was in me, it was on me, it keeps getting written all over my face. Watch your tongue, you might say, or, go ahead and fix your face. But help is on the other side, Debbie, my good one, it’s stuck in profile, Debbie, it’s not on its way. Use our arms as your arms, the ditch lilies beckon. There, they say, now you know what it’s like to be pleasantly ignored. We keep all the wrong appointments, Debbie. Sunday bleeds into Monday and unlike flowers, Monday will not be ignored. Because. [...]


A Poem By John Gallaher

In a Landscape: XXXVII

I think “getting out of the way” is a great way to be helpful to most people most of the time, especially when I meet one of those people who reminds me of the truth behind “killing someone with kindness.” And so we’re all, no matter what, trapped in our own heads, of course, and there’s usually nothing different about the day you started, it was the day you started, that’s all. What that has to do with being overly helpful, I’m not sure, it just kind of came to me. Maybe it’s just that it’s all some version of the unknown, and getting out of [...]


A Poem By Brian Blanchfield

Pferd                                                                    Marino Marini, Bechtler Museum of Modern Art

Gift Swiss, holding American, art Italian, tradition Boeotian. The diabetic buckles on the expo path, dislodges the fizzy headset and—would it be cavalier to add—misses in the Snapple retrieved for him

the incidental part Marini plays in the tour of art a love poem once underwent, beloved incidental, he on whose behalf from all the world’s unconcern one circulating suitor contrived express concession.

Anyway if there is a homologue in the Frick what can it mean in Charlotte, stooped at the centerpiece, in powered-down posterity, in a sugar low, North Carolina?                            Not rearing, and no rider, right or wrong, so by [...]


A Poem By Monica McClure

Beauty School Dropout

I want to solve the problem of heterosexual desire like why do I love dick so much Is there something transcendent about self-abasement I’m not a licensed esthetician so I don’t know what scholars say about Brazilian keratin treatments The formaldehyde stylists breathe is Adam’s Curse To be a woman is to know one must starve I don’t feel very straight at all I masturbate to underground gay thug porn and still wind up thinking about the male gaze I want to be so skinny people ask if I’m dying Have you ever been on the roof of The Standard and noticed your tatters in the unforgiving [...]


A Poem By Josh Bell

If not Princess, then Warden

Things start off well: I’m the warden and no one’s writing on the walls in shit. I encourage all inmates to grow a mustache like mine, a bit of sculpted punctuation curling beneath the nose, directing the reader of the face downward to the lips. With them, and to the fellow in the mirror, I say, “my sweat unbreakable you,” helplessly using the word “sweat” instead of “sweet,” the way a high-school girlfriend did once in a letter, writing “Sweatheart, are we still going to the jamboree?” We were not going to the jamboree, anymore, Sally Garrett. This morning, out by the smokestacks before school, [...]


A Poem By Tanya Olson

54 Prince There exist 54 Goldilocks planets 54 planets not too hot 54 planets not too cold 54 planets where the living is juuuuuust right in that particular planetary zone

54 planets like Earth but not Earth Similar not the same 54 planets close but different Different except for Prince

Assless Pants Prince High-Heel Boots Prince Purple Rain Prince Paisley Park Prince I Would Die For You Prince Ejaculating Guitar Prince Jehovah’s Witness Prince Needs A New Hip Prince Wrote Slave On His Face Prince Took An Unpronounceable Symbol For His Name Prince Chka Chka Chka Ahh Prince

54 planets each with a Prince and every Prince exactly [...]


A Poem By Thomas Devaney

The War Vase

None of the words in my voice are my own. What I can see I see only through your eyes: the tempera gold leaf—my vessel, my vim.            The accumulation of all my reflections; your face is older now too. Still, I am rash— a prize above the fray. Spared in the minds of those who will not spare each other. Emanation is a light that can shine from one’s own body. But ruder powers do the job I cannot do myself. My only enemies are those who will not fight for me. Thomas Devaney is the author of The Picture that Remains (The Print Center, Philadelphia, [...]


A Poem By Sara Sutter

Day My Father Died

Friday, June 24th. It’s easy to remember, being halfway before and after. Record low temperature. November 22nd draws close. By now, in 2005, he told me he needs to go somewhere. The day my father died, I could not cry; my mother did. His face on the pillow in the faux moonlight. Rote morning, black and white, I was walking home from the library carrying nine books. That’s the way my memory sees it, but I can’t know exactly nine. “It was the worst day of my life.” The Day My Father Died (updated with pictures). Rate: 36 Flag. Explain why. We laid flowers on [...]


A Poem By Molly Brodak

Net, Web I land fully formed like a cherub. Nothing pleases me. You least of all, with your fingers poking their grime on dreams. Behind thick drapes my code is plain and can’t account for your dismal nerves, twitchy joys and wounds. This is what you wanted. Guarantee of unplumbable lake. Forget you are greatly eased or disturbed by smells, where and how your nerves directly touch the air. Here, you will always have everyone wherever you go. Molly Brodak is the author of A Little Middle of the Night (University of Iowa Press, 2010) and three chapbooks of poetry. She lives in Atlanta and teaches at Emory University. [...]


A Poem By Sandra Simonds

I Grade Online Humanities Tests

at McDonalds where there are no black people and there’s a multiple choice question or white people about Don Quixote or Asian or Indian people I don’t want to be around people I want to be here where there is free wireless I do not want to sit at the Christian coffee shop nor the public library No I want religion to blow itself up My sister converted to Catholicism I do not want to sit at Starbucks I like McDonalds coffee because it is cheap and watery I like how it tastes I like this table where the old man is telling his old [...]


Two Poems By Alli Warren

My Factless Autobiography

The grammarian chooses a place in the open air for arguments fiction runs sweet in my nostrils I inhale a failing air fleet four of them for to eat the milky crab the pudding proof is found in

I am the Assayer of Weights and Measures I am what I am because I am not something else I hold a lily in my hands it is not gross As a fabric is a historic surface I am propelled I touch bone & traffic in salt like minefields & the people we inhabit

Who but the most despairing among us will dwell on that point tonight? Good [...]


A Poem By Kamilah Aisha Moon

The First Time I Saw My Mother Without Her Prosthesis

                                                                              after Hafizah Geter

Like the smooth face of the cliff she was just thrown from, the left side of her chest was flat and blank, save for two tiny raised scythes. Not a half-carved turkey, thankless, but a woman.

It almost seemed as if her breast could be drawn back on again, as if the scalpel was merely erasing cancer, as if the right one hanging like a luminous brown tear wasn’t the lonely twin. As if this new lightness didn’t threaten to render her a widow of his touch, de-mother her somehow.

Is this a crystal ball moment— the [...]


A Poem By Mary Jo Bang

The Storm We Call Progress

Strum and concept, drum and bitterness, the dog of history keeps being blown into the present— her back to the future, her last supper simply becoming the bowels’ dissolving memory in a heap before her. A child pats her back and drones there-there while under her lifted skirt is a perfect today where a cult of ghost-lovers predicts a rapture but instead remains to inherit varicose veins, rubber knickers, douches with bulbs, douches with bags, girdles in a choice of pink, red or white, and in rubber, silk or twilled linen, enemas, clysters, oils balms, and other Benjamin etceteras burrowing like scabies into the [...]


A Poem By Wesley Rothman

Like a Prayer

Everyone must stand alone with other loners. The black lace

veils from every other chapel- goer, all the doves mourning

a boy-star petered out too soon. Heaven help me slip through

the bars of this brick house shattered by blue light, glum moon

fidgeting with shadow. The boy’s black light vision. His sideways

ways of painting wings, crowns, anointed words and words

backtracked. Track back a beginning, what the cave muralists

meant. Not the death of the beast but the brilliant red, the rigid white

of bones. Raise folded hands and a fur-gilded skull. Crown yourself

with horns, most elegant weapons. And with slowly going embers

listen [...]


Two Poems By David Lehman

Poem Ending with a Phrase from Federico Garcia Lorca The last time I saw Lorenzo he was wearing a blind man’s glasses and holding the leash of a seeing-eye dog

though he isn’t blind and he doesn’t have a dog and his name isn’t Lorenzo but Bruce.

Who can explain why a man might dance on the ledge outside his office five flights above the Hudson River?

The city with five boroughs and two thousand bridges fits on one side of the coin my father gave me to give to a beggar.

It remains in my pocket as I look out the window on the day of my [...]


A Poem By Martha Silano


Either everything’s a valley, a jelly donut dimpled down the middle, or else everything’s

a collision of plates, crustal thickening on its way toward muscled mountains. Either everything’s way,

way, beyond mid-gallop or a rundown shack haystack- still, a dog-patch immobilizing glory, gumption, get up

and go. Either everything’s a sandy path leading to a dune-saving fence or nothing’s guarded, out of reach.

Which is worse: too many walls or not enough, the laciness of shams or an endless hallway of bare

jalousies, dead fly lounging on each lone pane?


Two Poems By Craig Morgan Teicher


All the worrier wants is love, like anyone else. But he won’t seize it for himself; he needs you to come to him, admiring the way he keeps the background safe for everyone.             He can’t—maybe you’re right, he won’t—descend the pole into the heart of the burning house, the hotspot between the sheets. But someone fastidious must man the radar, someone, unlike you, who is happy in the lukewarm broth between choices.             One part of him is forever holding his foot above its first step, waiting for the all-clear that can never come. Another part is waiting for you—he may move if you take his hand.


A Poem By Harriet Levin And Ravi Shankar

Love and Decay

Graze on the face like a fly on honeydew, bend over toward someone so that your entire body alights imperceptibly, on the cusp of action, afternoon fretted in long lines of light through a near-drawn shade. Between what you do and what you don’t do, what you can’t (but could) or haven’t (again) but have imagined, fates hang suspended in the whirl of motes over sugar, over a piece of fruit, over an orb smashed on the ground. The bride walked out of church with her bouquet, then seeing it still in her hand, she dropped it. The airplane running low on fuel cannot circle back. [...]