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Poem of The Day
From the magazine:In Colorado My Father Scoured and Stacked Dishes
In Colorado My Father Scoured and Stacked Dishes
By Eduardo C. Corral
in a Tex-Mex restaurant. His co-workers,
unable to utter his name, renamed him Jalapeño.
If I ask for a goldfish, he spits a glob of phlegm
into a jar of water. The silver letters
on his black belt spell Sangrón. Once,...
Poem of The Day
By Paul Muldoon
The snail moves like a
Hovercraft, held up by a
Rubber cushion of itself,
Sharing its secret
With the hedgehog. The hedgehog
Shares its secret with no one.
We say, Hedgehog, come out
Of yourself and we will love you.
We mean no harm. We want
Only to listen...
Hovercraft, held up by a
Rubber cushion of itself,
Sharing its secret
With the hedgehog. The hedgehog
Shares its secret with no one.
We say, Hedgehog, come out
Of yourself and we will love you.
We mean no harm. We want
Only to listen...
Poem of The Day
By Lucille Clifton
won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
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Glossary Terms
Bad verse traditionally characterized by clichés, clumsiness, and irregular meter. It is often unintentionally humorous. The “giftedly bad” William McGonagall was an accomplished doggerelist, as demonstrated in “The Tay Bridge Disaster”:
It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world…
It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world…
Poem Guides
Poem GuideBy Remica Bingham-RisherWhat do we uncover when we try to salvage history?
From the Poetry Magazine Archive
- PoemFrom the magazine:
Turnstile Jumping
By Janelle Tanthe card machine is broken again.
on the platform, a boy
jumps the turnstile behind me.
i notice him, walking toward the tracks
with no look back.
some days the turnstiles swing forward,
and i don’t look back.
some days by the emergency exit a hand on... - PoemFrom the magazine:
notes on domesticity
By t’ai freedom fordthere are no spoons left too much tasting & stirring the eggs
are cooked just so & speckled white with goat cheese but’ve gone
cold, of course as always but the toast is warm & unburnt
fake butter buttered smeared with jammy fruit... - PoemFrom the magazine:
Queer Appalachia
By RK FauthTake me to the holler.
I want to see the cows
Big Mamaw’s grave and
something about tobacco fields.
I don’t recall all you said at Barley’s, but you
introduced yourself with an anecdote
about toothbrushes made from
chewed-up willow branches and
coyotes loping along a
wooded backyard—Uncle Clark’s
and...
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