January 2009
Poems by C.K. Williams, Kim Addonizio, Anne Winters; previously unpublished Langston Hughes, introduced by Arnold Rampersad; Michael Hofmann on Bishop and Lowell.Read the Issue >>
Each month the editors of Poetry magazine talk about the issue. Listen here to the most recent episode or browse the archive.Of All the Poems In the World, Why Would You Pick This One?
Previously unpublished poems by Langston Hughes, a preview of Michael Hofmann's essay on Lowell and Bishop—and a phone call to readers in Texas who don't like the poems in this month's issue!
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Poetry magazine senior editor Don Share recently wrote:
Some of the recent threads here talk about how poets will be able to make a living in this new bad economy. Well, there never was a strong connection between poetry and making a living, as my old man well knew. Just now there's not a lot of money in anything. But there is, there has to be, survival. And letting the mind wander is something we'll need more of now as we re-imagine our futures, and perhaps even our political and social circumstances. As for poetry, no doubt something of it will not only survive but be - dare I (day)dream it? - immortal, and limitless (as in, you know, "language without limit").
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Interested in discovering other ways to approach a poem? Have a look at our discussion guide for the December issue. Download PDF now? >>
ZebraBy C. K. Williams
Kids once carried tin soldiers in their pockets as charms
against being afraid, but how trust soldiers these days
not to load up, aim, blast the pants off your legs?
I have a key-chain zebra I bought at the Thanksgiving fair.
How do I know she won't kick, or bite at my crotch?
Because she's been murdered, machine-gunned: she's dead.
Also, she's a she: even so crudely carved, you can tell
by the sway of her belly a foal's inside her.
Even murdered mothers don't hurt people, do they?
And how know she's murdered? Isn't everything murdered?
Some dictator's thugs, some rebels, some poachers;
some drought, world-drought, world-rot, pollution, extinction.
Everything's murdered, but still, not good, a dead thing
in with your ID and change. I fling her away, but the death
of her clings, the death of her death, her murder, her slaughter.
The best part of Thanksgiving Day, though—the parade!
Mickey Mouse, Snoopy, Kermit the Frog, enormous as clouds!
And the marching bands, majorettes, anthems and drums!
When the great bass stomped its galloping boom out
to the crowd, my heart swelled with valor and pride.
I remembered when we saluted, when we took off our hat.
Read More from the Current Issue >>
Who Needs to Hear A Quagga’s Voice?By Daisy Fried
"This isn't your standard alas-the-endangered-owl poem, trying too hard to pull the heartstrings."
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