Book Picks

Planetaria is a groundbreaking collection of visual poetry that remaps the cosmos through a feminist, diasporic lens. Emerging from Monica Ong’s acclaimed exhibition at the Poetry Foundation back in 2022, the book transforms classic astronomical instruments, such as volvelles and planispheres, into poetic mechanisms that explore erasure, visibility, and the role of women in science and mythology. Ong has carefully woven Chinese star charts, scientific illustrations, and her own family photographs with lyrical text, inviting the reader to uncover hidden narratives and challenge the star lore borne of patriarchy and imperialism. In the book’s introduction, John Yau writes, “Scientifically minded, which is to say a pursuer of truths, Ong’s work is not about superstition, but the long shadows such beliefs cast over time. Discovering the different ways culture has defined the space between the truth-seeking individual and the indifferent universe, she re-envisions that gap.”

Planetaria expands the boundaries of what poetry can be, fusing language, image, and object into a multisensory experience. Readers are not just observers but explorers, navigating rotating poems and lunar diagrams that map narratives often left out of the stars. Luminous, intimate, and insurgent, Ong’s work is a celestial atlas for our time, and nothing short of a triumph.

“To notice is to hold the self open
wholly as a grail
steady as a brush
in silken sweeps across soft
veils of valerian sky.”

It is an enormous, ancient forest

That has not yet been fully explored.

These lines begin Ricardo Bozzi’s visually breathtaking and deeply emotional picture book, The Forest. Exquisitely illustrated by Violeta Lópiz and Valerio Vidali, the book’s meaning unfolds in the interplay between its lush illustrations of verdant foliage and delicately rendered portraits of human travelers, whose faces appear almost imperceptibly within its pages, embossed as uncolored indentations within the paper itself. This tactile addition draws attention to the physicality of reading and underscores for the reader that this is a story of the body: a universal story that has been told since time out of mind, and one that always ends in loss. Journeying through the forest, Bozzi’s travelers age from childlike wonder to mature determination, arriving at the culmination of Bozzi’s spare, haunting text: “What may lie beyond the forest, no one knows.” Bozzi, Lópiz, and Vidali, aided by the deft translations of Debbie Bibo, have given readers a singular and unforgettable reading experience, one as mysterious, transformative, and poignant as the landscape it evokes. 

Recently, a friend asked for reading recommendations for surviving facism. We listed poets who have lived and written within and through fascist regimes. It is a long list, one that continues growing. Mine has started to sprawl to include various liminal poetics of resistance. Russell Edson’s surreal, subversive, and unnerving prose poems remind me that much of what is now accepted as the nature of things was imagined by someone. And there are other ways to imagine and so understand what we have created and who we can become.

In See Jack, the difficult and uncomfortable is mantled in humor, the abject made palatable. We laugh when Jack falls from the sky and becomes “a sack of broken bones, blood weeping from his weave” as we do when the cartoon bomb detonates and leaves an animated coyote’s face in a blackened blast pattern, or an actor pratfalls in a sitcom. Or when a man is consumed by what he has consumed in “The Hunger:”

A man puts his head in a hat. But the hat thinks he’s feeding it, and begins to swallow his head.
No, no, Hat, I’m just completing my costume!
But his hat begins to suck his head like a huge mouth nursing a breast, sucking the milk of his thoughts into its crown.

Edson’s work boils with genitals, breasts, taboo sexual practices, rats, and turds. Here the nearly infinite violences of American culture are revealed to be what is truly obscene: maximal  individualism, the narrow and confining roles of the nuclear family and heteronormative relationships; the waste and refuse generated by extreme materialism and compulsive consumerism; the commodification of the non-human; the dehumanization of other humans; the obscene violence of our defining mythologies; even, or especially, our language, as in “Eggs:” 

Beat them before they’ve found their beaks and claws.

Separate yolks from whites. Beat whites into a feathery froth. Beat yolks in a back room with a fly swatter.

Quickly combine yolks with whites before they forget what might have been…

I, like many, find myself returning to this poem every spring. It depicts a narrator who, while enroute to London, watches several weddings from the window of his train. This poem captures the familiar surprise of springtime. It is easy to become totally enthralled by winter, struggling through the endless cold; then, suddenly, it is spring, and there are buds on the trees. While our heads were down, time has moved forward. The narrator of this poem, too, seems surprised to find himself in the midst of a new season, here announced by the cyclical rhythm of strangers’ lives:

We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls   
In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,   
All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event
    Waving goodbye
To something that survived it. Struck, I leant   
More promptly out next time, more curiously,   
And saw it all again in different terms:  

As someone who frequently finds themself surrounded by strangers on buses and trains, Larkin plays a familiar game: look at these unknown people and try to guess at their lives. Larkin allows himself to be drawn into these scenes and moved by them. In this poem, and throughout this collection, his characters rise above simple tropes that spur them, as if he is challenging us to rise above our own innate cynicism. Larkin’s delicate portrait of these couples and their families is bittersweet, filled with the sense of his own wonder and disconnect. He is just a passenger, joined to these strangers only by a moment of his attention. And yet he is still affected by this small glimpse into their world:

…it was nearly done, this frail   
Travelling coincidence; and what it held   
Stood ready to be loosed with all the power   
That being changed can give.

It’s hard to imagine a more fitting read for National Poetry Month than Out of Wonder: Poems Celebrating Poets. Alexander, Colderley, and Wentworth have crafted a stunning tribute to the power of poetry and the poets who have shaped our world. Each poem seamlessly weaves the authors' voices with those of history's most celebrated poets, creating original pieces inspired by their signature styles or recurring themes—the star-studded lineup, spanning centuries and continents, includes Gwendolyn Brooks, Mary Oliver, Rumi, Langston Hughes, Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou, and many more. Accompanied by vibrant mixed-media illustrations by Ekua Holmes, every page is a feast for the eyes and ears, showcasing how even the smallest poem can carry immense beauty and emotional depth.

Ideal for readers of all ages, Out of Wonder nurtures a love for language while celebrating the diversity of poetic expression and imagination. In his introduction, Alexander shares that the book’s title was inspired by a quote from the prolific poet Lucille Clifton: “Poems come out of wonder, not out of knowing.” Poetry requires a fierce curiosity—a willingness to listen to the world and let it open up around you. Alexander continues, “A poem is a small but powerful thing. It has the power to reach inside of you, ignite something within, and change you in ways you never imagined.” 

Happy National Poetry Month! May you revel in the wonder of words and be forever changed by the poems you encounter.

Take immortality, God, but give 
me this cold apple cellar. Take the souls 
and other toys, but let us live: not-Adam and not-Eve, not your son’s— 
my son’s life.

Dmitry Bliznyk, translated by Katie Farris and Ilya Kaminsky

Is there a light on inside?—Yes, he’s always at home. 
Knock at the door of the horseradish. 
Knock on the door of his hut. 
Knock, he will let you in.

Oleh Lysheha, translated by James Brasfield

February 24 marked the third anniversary of the full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine, inaugurating the escalation of an ongoing war that has displaced over 10 million Ukrainians and killed thousands of civilians. In the Hour of War: Poetry from Ukraine, published in 2023, gathers English-language translations by 27 contemporary Ukrainian poets writing in the shadow of Russian aggression. In addition to serving as an urgent reminder of the unbearable human cost of war, the poems in this anthology are an excellent introduction to the varied and vibrant landscape of contemporary Ukrainian poetry. Readers will encounter works by poets with many published collections, as well as works that have been less widely translated. The remarkable poems in this essential collection offer a window into the ongoing experience of the Ukrainian people, and will invite deeper engagement with individual poets' work.

One purpose or function or value of poetry is that it works to say what is unsayable, to encapsulate in language what is beyond language. Love is one word that yawns beyond any dictionary definition. Horror is another.

How to say what is unsayable? How to speak of anything else? How, in the aftermath of horror, to say anything at all?

There are many worthy and important translations of Paul Celan’s poetry. Here I am recommending Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan, translated by John Felstiner, because it is the first translation of Celan’s work that I remember reading. Even now, holding this book brings back that quiet click of teeth meeting their mirror in a dark keyway.

There are poems I have memorized so that I can carry them as long and as far as I can maintain my poor memory. Felstiner’s translation of “There was earth inside them,” from Celan’s 1961 collection Die Niemandsrose, is one. 

How to live, not just survive, in a world of increasing suffering, cruelty, and violence? How to write a poem about horror with love? I offer the last stanza of Celan’s poem, four lines that I carry with me, a key to open a door to whatever world comes next:

O one, o none, o no one, o you: 
Where did it go then, making for nowhere? 
O you dig and I dig, and I dig through to you, 
and the ring on our finger awakens. 

In A Face Is a Poem, Julie Morstad embarks on an exploration of the human face, transforming it into an exquisite work of art and poetry. With delicate, dreamlike illustrations and lyrical text, Morstad captures the unique shapes, expressions, and stories that our faces reveal. Each page presents a reflection on the subtle power of our facial features, from the curve of a smile to the depth in a gaze, reminding us that the ways we present ourselves to the world cast light upon the histories we carry.

As with all of Morstad’s work (her 2021 book, Time Is a Flower, is another personal favorite, and a fitting companion for A Face Is a Poem), this new title is a perfect read for children and adults alike, encouraging a deeper appreciation for the quiet beauty of everyday things. Whether you're reading it to spark a conversation about self-expression or simply to marvel at the enchanting visuals, A Face Is a Poem is an invitation to see faces (particularly those of our loved ones) not merely as an assortment of features, but rather as a kind of visual poem, precious in its singularity, just waiting to be read, contemplated, and enjoyed.

“A face is a poem with all the parts put together, adding up to someone you love.”

Raisa Tolchinsky’s debut collection, winner of the 2023 Lexi Rudnitsky First Book Prize, stuns the reader with a blistering beauty. These tightly crafted poems detail the narrator’s immersion in the gendered world of boxing, an immersion that is framed as a descent. The poems trace a simultaneously toxic and compelling landscape in which “the days bleed like cuts”, as the speaker chases salvation through an underworld presided over by “Coach”, an abusive trainer who “kept changing shape”.

In Glass Jaw, the quest for redemption leads the narrator through increasingly punishing physical routines until a moment of clarity arrives during a fight:

I hit her hard 
because he said that’s how you win. 
and I hit her until I remembered 
it was him who was afraid—

For the narrator of Glass Jaw, liberation ultimately arrives through the act of writing. The poem Canto 2 movingly details the process of learning to speak one’s truth with courage. This December, as the year draws to its longest darkness, these poems offered me a visceral, hard won journey towards light.

Describing visual poetry feels like playing a game of telephone with the strange and wondrous figures that reside in Mita Mahato’s brilliant poetry comix collection, Arctic Play: rocks that are cuts of meat, 12-14 gold-whiskered walruses, the many individual colors existing within a single sea. What follows is meant as a kind of postcard sent from deep inside the world she brings into being, an invitation inside a missive: Dear— In this far-away space and time, thinking of you. 

Play here functions both a genre, a noun, and verb, a description of the ways Mahato explores language and text in constellation with the visual media and materials by salvaging, splicing, fragmenting, weaving, layering, shaping, tincturing, erasing, obliterating, and spacing. 

The discarded materials appear as physically tactile, fragile, and ephemeral as the beings encountered here, their individual and communal life spans clipped short, fragmented, by the climate catastrophes that are no longer approaching but arrived. With the dedication and care of an archivist, Mahato gathers, arranges, creates and recreates, composes and decomposes. Her practice is preservation and devotion, and offers an elegy that is always, at its marrow, an ode, a love poem. 

Arctic Play is a landscape that asks us to experience and navigate the place in the poem and the poem as a place. From the bounds of the comix panel, the dimensions of a poem, a page, a book, the bent edges of a postcard, a beloved writes Wish you were here. 

I always try to read Jewish poetry around the High Holidays: Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. These Days of Awe provide a rare opportunity for true reflection—the things you are proud of, the mistakes you made, the moments of joy, and those of sadness. Reading When There Was Light, Carlie Hoffman’s luminous 2023 collection from Four Way Books, at this particular time of year was a deeply moving experience. Her poems are glorious and subtle, slowly weaving the tapestry of her history as the granddaughter of Russian and Polish immigrants. Judaism is central to her family’s narrative, but any immigrant (or descendant of immigrants) can relate to their story. Coming from somewhere else, fleeing persecution, struggling to build a better life, losing loved ones far too soon, facing hatred for the way you look, the language you speak, the way you pray—all are part of the American experience, for we are a nation of immigrants. And, like many first- or second-generation Americans, Hoffman is overflowing with questions about her people’s past, desperate for a connection to their roots: “Will I ever stop / being angry for never hearing my family’s language?” And though she is often met with silence, she finds ways to make that silence beautiful. She writes:

“In every city, / every spit-shined field, / I hear the violent, ancient noise / of my family’s silence. The silence / shimmers. It is forged the way Earth’s magma / is made into glimmering rock. / This rock will furnish / the future’s room.”

&

“It’s like the sea, / how you can only continue, / through creation—hyacinth and earth— / depends on flesh, on the beginning / of grief. You see your image / within each horse’s frothing mane, / your lawless body a tree.”

Shana Tova, a happy and healthy new year to all who celebrate.

Note: This year, Rosh Hashanah begins at sundown on Wednesday, October 2nd, and ends at nightfall on Friday, October 4th. Yom Kippur begins at sundown on Friday, October 11th, and ends at nightfall on Saturday, October 12th.

September is associated with the end of summer, with a return to school and various deadlines and responsibilities. Perhaps you’d rather forget all those dreary things, or at least escape them for a time. Leonora Carrington’s The Milk of Dreams will transport readers to a land where children grow wings for ears and their heads fly away from their bodies, laughing. Carrington was a surrealist painter and the author of novels, short stories, and plays. The Milk of Dreams is a book of poems and drawings for children. Carrington’s enchanting, sometimes sinister dreamscapes offer an opportunity to look deeply at the world around us with wonder and with laughter.

When I crave a day with a good friend in New York City, but can’t get there, I go out to lunch with Frank O’Hara.

It’s my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look 
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.

“A Step Away from Them,” from the seminal collection Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara, starts with this clear-cut scene from a typical New York day. It’s 1956 but it could very well be today that we walk the streets with him. 

With his trademark wit and intellect, O’Hara invites us into his life with a casual grace that can reach any reader. His observations about everything, from the way neon signs look in the sunlight to a master’s work of art, become a lively conversation between poet and reader. I read Frank O’Hara as if I am talking to a friend, highlighted here in these lines from “St. Paul and All That,” 1961. 

I am alive with you
                         full of anxious pleasures and pleasurable anxiety
hardness and softness
                         listening while you talk and talking while you read
 

Frank O’Hara graciously straddled the line of the Beat generation and the New York School. Lunch Poems, published by Lawrence Ferlinghetti of City Lights, cements that idea. So, go out to lunch with our friend Frank, soak up his warmth and wit, and spend the rest of your day a little lighter and a little more aware of the world around you. 

Alice Oswald’s Memorial names itself a version, an excavation, of Homer’s Iliad. In her introduction, she advises the reader: “I write through the Greek, not from it—aiming for translucence rather than translation.” In this version of the Trojan War, Oswald beams light on and through the names of 200 men killed in the war. In the following lines some are granted lives: families, lovers, homes, qualities unrelated to the battlefield. Some are granted individual, particular deaths. Most remain only names preceded by the names of others and followed by the names of others.

Extended similes spread like water or clouds between the dead of Memorial. Each evokes scenes from the natural world, pastoral settings, and far-away homes—the familiar world startling and strange within the litany of violence and death. The nature of erasure, and the white space in the text, breaks apart the pair being compared. The reader learns what something is like, but not what that something is. Each “like” could be stitched to the description of the death preceding, but the word also points to what has been erased, to bright light of the chasm created by the white space, and what grows in the liminal spaces erasure creates.

In the introduction, Oswald, a classist and a poet, reminds us that “ancient critics praised [the Iliad’s] ‘enargeia,’ which means something like ‘bright unbearable beauty.’ It’s the word used when gods come to earth not in disguise but as themselves.” Memorial wears Homer’s epic down to the unbearable, which the reader is asked to bear: the beauty of the world and the horror humans inflict on ourselves and each other. 

Like a man put a wand of olive in the earth
And watered it and that wand became a wave
It became a whip a spine a crown
It became a wind-dictionary
It could speak in tongues
It became a wobbling wagon-load of flowers
And then a storm came spinning by
And it became a broken tree uprooted
It became a wood pile in a lonely field

This book, made of letters, is a love letter itself. Not just from Sarah Ruhl to Max Ritvo, but to friendship itself. A true friend is a rare thing – not just someone whose company you enjoy, but someone who irrevocably changes your life for the better, who leaves their mark on your very soul. It is even more precious when two artists find each other in this way, as Sarah and Max did. They met when Sarah was Max’s student at Yale, but as any educator will know, our students frequently end up teaching us far more than we teach them (sometimes clichés are true for a reason), and Max was no exception. Over the next four years, the writing they inspired in one another is a true gift, one that we, the readers, are privileged enough to witness through their correspondence.

For example, from Max:

“Everything in my life, the fabric of my life itself, is dissolving. You are not. Maybe I am not? That’s what your letter meant to me.”

And from Sarah:

“Courage, I say, 
is you, 
Max.

In your wild suit
your small boat
and terrible forest 

a man overnight
no boy
could ever scale those walls.

You come home
and dinner is waiting,
still waiting I hope, still warm.”

Grief and loss touch so many aspects of their story, and Sarah does not shy away from that in her retelling. It is an unflinching portrayal of the deep injustice of death approaching when one’s life has barely begun, when there is still so much more to say. Max passed away after his battle with cancer when he was just twenty-five years old. There is no way to spin that as anything but what it was: a heartbreaking loss. But in all her work, Sarah has an immense ability to provide us with hope, even within the darkest of moments, and with truth. This is not a sentimental tear-jerker of an illness narrative. It is honest. It is real. We see Max’s humor, his passion, his talent, and the joy he brought to everyone he met shine through the pages of this book. He did not waste one second of his (to borrow another poet’s turn of phrase) one wild and precious life, creating a truly exceptional body of work to leave the world before he left it far too soon. And now Sarah has given us yet another gift: Max’s memory becomes a living, breathing thing in her new play adaptation of Letters From Max, which the Poetry Foundation has the great privilege of presenting to the public later this month, following its off-Broadway premiere in 2023.

I could go on and on about my love for this beautiful book and my excitement for its new incarnation, but instead, I’ll leave you with a beloved quote from Sarah’s poem, “Lunch with Max on the Upper East Side,” which first appeared in Letters From Max and was later published in her debut poetry collection, 44 Poems for You (Copper Canyon Press, 2020):

“Max is a poet.
Max is a poem.
We all become poems
in the end.”

A reading of Sarah Ruhl’s adaptation of Letters from Max will be performed at the Poetry Foundation at 2:00 PM CDT on June 29th, 2024. More details and registration information for this event can be found here.

In March my father passed away, and I understood something that I had previously known, but more shallowly: among its other uses, poetry is a container for grief. In Economy of the Unlost, the poet and scholar Anne Carson examines the ways two poets from vastly different eras and cultures invented new poetic forms for grieving. Born in Greece in 556 B.C., Simonides of Keos was a lyric poet known for his elegies and epigrams. Paul Celan was a Romanian Jewish poet and Holocaust survivor who wrote poems in German, the language of his parents’ murderers. Carson has placed these writers “side by side in a conversation and yet no conversation takes place. With and against, aligned and adverse, each is placed like a surface in which the other may come into focus.” Carson lays a careful trail for the reader, guiding them through the particulars of the circumstances in which each poet was writing. Simonides, the first poet to craft verse for inscription on gravestones, employs a radical concision dictated by economy. Celan, writing in a language whose meaning had been perverted by atrocity, reshapes and excavates words in order to salvage their value. Holding both poets to each other’s light, Carson offers the reader a deeper understanding of one of poetry’s central impulses: to bear that which is unbearable, which all will bear.

In honor of National Poetry Month, month of cold new blooms in the Northern Hemisphere where I read and write, I present a bouquet of lines from Girls That Never Die by Safia Elhillo (page numbers noted below):

My mother is almost my mother now, 

That night, metal of the fire escape against my bare legs, I accepted 

the girl who became my grandmother          brows & body rounded & cursive like arabic 

Because I am their daughter my body is not mine. 

the ocean froths over my thighs 

 

                                              who hurt you            who hurt you

 

my languages             my ligatures  smoke in my loosened hair 

i place inside me figs & nectarines, gnarled tomatoes 

The blood comes & comes 

imagining a girl          imagine nothing is done to her 

& become a hazard, meaning danger but also meaning 

i formed a body to be left behind 

i wear the dead girl’s clothes 

i misplace my homeland    mispronounce my mother 

what small freedoms could I exchange for my name for my Name 

& the minutes pass & the girl is untouched 

Page numbers, in order of appearance: 4, 8, 13, 21, 23, 27, 41, 51, 64, 67, 75, 91, 93, 95, 105, 113

March 7th, 2024, will mark five months of a brutal war between Israel and Hamas in Gaza and other occupied Palestinian territories. As I cope with countless images, narratives, and news of this war, I mostly think of the human cost of the seventy-five year Israeli occupation of Palestine. Who do I trust most with the documentation of these years? Who do I turn to in order to better understand the history? As with most of my personal learning, I turn to poets and artists to give me the most accurately human description of what it must be like to live under these conditions.

A Blade of Grass: New Palestinian Poetry is an anthology I turn to and visit with often. Published in 2017, the volume does not include work that touches on current events. However, it gives space to the work of Palestinian poets from a range of generations who all share in what it means to live under occupation. Included among these poets are Fady Joudah, Mahmoud Darwish, and Sara Saleh, who all help us learn how to find hope and see beauty in the rubble of our cities, how to persevere with love and anger, and how to explain the unexplainable pain of losing home and those you hold dearest.

Presented in both Arabic and English, and in various poetic forms, A Blade of Grass is a poetic, confronting history lesson I so desperately needed. While libraries, schools, and archives are razed throughout Gaza, I think it is more important than ever to witness this history through the work of those who live it.

February, that month of short, cold days with a backdrop of red and pink hearts is the perfect time to revisit the work of Lucille Clifton and her astonishing collection, The Book of Light. Originally published in 1993 and recently released in an anniversary edition by Copper Canyon Press, the new edition contains a foreword by the poet Ross Gay and an afterword by Clifton’s daughter Sidney Clifton, which give additional context to the poems.

Clifton was the recipient of the Juniper Prize, the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, and a National Book Award, among many other honors. The poems in The Book of Light include some of her most well known work, including “won’t you celebrate with me”:

     born in babylon
     both nonwhite and woman
     what did i see to be except myself?

The poems in The Book of Light address both personal trauma and global tragedy. Light appears as a form of truth telling, as in a series of poems addressed to Superman, where the poet asks if he will follow her when she decides to “enter the darkest room / in my house and speak / with my own voice, at last”. Readers who follow Clifton through these startling, funny, and unforgettable poems will be rewarded with the grace of Clifton’s unique illumination.

In this world, it is so easy to feel small. So small that we cannot even begin to fight for what we know is right. So small that we believe what is will always be, that one voice cannot possibly make a difference. But Amanda Gorman and Christian Robinson have given us something truly precious with their new book, Something, Someday – hope. Their text and accompanying illustrations are stunning in their simplicity, as they paint the story of a child saddened by the garbage that has taken over his community. He is told there is nothing he can do, “to sit and wait, / but you know people / have already waited / too long.” So he begins to clean up his neighborhood, finding friends to help him along the way who start to see that “this problem is big, / but together, / we are bigger.” Together, seed by seed, sprout by sprout, they turn the mountains of trash into a beautiful garden. This book’s target audience is children, but readers of all ages can and should be reminded of its lesson. It takes patience and perseverance, but together, we can build something better. “Something that is not a dream, / but the day you live in.”