Skip to content Skip to navigation

Poetry

To start, you trap him in a glass:

he’s stoic while you study his

mismatched, barbed, jackknifed knees,

pincer tails and antennae weeds

all sprouting from a belly-head —

the spindly shape of insect dread.

 

He fills the space from rim to rim,

that foreign, smudged, thorny thing.

Beneath him the white porcelain

looks soft, almost as hidden skin,

and as you curl closer in,

you wonder if he thinks or cares

that there’s no route from here to there:

no mimicry, nor camouflage,

no leaping trick nor subterfuge—

not anything that he can do,

no pathway to your human heart!


There are many angles to living life:

looking out of a window six stories high,

strolling by a pond with mallards swimming,

being a vegetable before tv,

or just dozing, thinking about what’s happened.

 

The poet Euclid wrote about angles

in a way that retarded mathematics,

just as the broad eloquence of Plato

with dazzling angles of fictional thoughts

persuaded people that common sense fails.

 

If it wasn’t for old Aristotle,

would we have arrived at Rousseau, Hegel,

Whitehead, or any of the brilliant brains

who point like a corrective weathervane?


I have a friend who dreams about numbers,

another who dreams about divinity,

and one who dreams about playing music.

As a poet, my dreams are various

because poets remain generalists

who attempt eagle-like aerial maps

portraying the plight of humanity.

 

For a poet, so much is metaphor—

the basis of all languages we speak.

The poet takes a hike through life’s landscape:

aura red glow on tree bark at sunset

or the patter of rain on splattered roof

makes all the difference to scribbled lines,

which is what a poet most dreams about.


Gliding along Times Square

Walking with a rhythmic gait

Of a Broadway dancer

You wear a purple felt hat

Adorning your crown.

What a conversation piece!

A tailored dark gray designer suit

Hugs your supple frame.

The wonderment enthralls me.

Are you a tap dancer?

Are you a celebrity?

Main Stem? On Broadway?

MY view of you from the bus window

Doesn’t answer my questions,

But I loooooooooove that purple hat!


When whitecaps wave with ardent excitement

and fierce wind topples umbrellas like kite

flying surf side while waves pound sand—

birds screeching with ambiguous delight

and tykes digging desultory holes in sand,

clouds remain sailing heroes of the day

scudding to their global destiny

as ambassadors of climatic play.

 

Those unfettered clouds have no small regrets

inhabiting those blue celestial spheres

that some humans daydream upon absurdly

in moments of narcistic reverie.

The cawing of a seagull on bleached beach

is older than mankind’s ambitious reach.


by Miloš Djurdjević in Poetry
Tue Apr 12th, 2016

no one dies here they are still standing

on the street their hollow knees limp

arms they never leave move nowhere

as if halted one step back is their

 ...

by Marcelo Quevedo, translated by Liz McNicoll in Poetry
Fri Apr 8th, 2016

When sunlight beams off balconies

and cumulous clouds barely move

while grass sleeps in green contentment,

I pretend to stroll in blue air

along a gurgling embankment

with a froth...

by Loredana Ingenito in Poetry
Fri Mar 18th, 2016
What are they there for
What’s their purpose
Elevated there in the galaxy, looking beautiful
All those planets
No life on them
I am perplexed by the things that don’t...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Mar 5th, 2016

Sub-zero weather, bluebird on bent bough,

snow crunching nearly up to knobby knees--

memory of fire flickering flame

in my mind like long-lost childhood dreams.

Do bluebirds dream of sky...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Feb 15th, 2016

Writing names in snow with my grandson,

we celebrate our temporality

before wind, wandering eyes, history,

which appears fleeting as mountain snow-melt

or roadside plough-sludge in the valley.

When children...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Feb 7th, 2016

Striped brown chipmunk scrabbled into food pantry—

Bully cat Willie chased him through the door.

Once the thing settled amid canned bottles

Of pickles, jams and jellies, wee tin cans,...

by Rennie McQuilkin in Poetry
Tue Jan 26th, 2016

The Digging

 

It's that time of year,
the hedgerows hung with bittersweet.
Potato time.

How early the freeze, I'd say
if we were speaking. We're

...
by Jonathan Wells in Poetry
Fri Jan 22nd, 2016

His sandals were found

pointing south from the cave

next to his drinking cup. The vines

he’d staked tailed into the ravine

where the river was sinewy

over the rocks....

Pages