Explore Poems: Ars Poetica

A pound of
Bruised mangoes
Cleaved into halves, chilied and salted like the heads of
Dead fish, which…

Which way to the monster cage? I am in my god body now—

in my sandy foxhole
sat backwards in a chair…

Your friends tell you the writing
is good but you’re not actually buying it—
so much idle conversation…

He and I sought together,
over the spattered table,
rhymes and flowers,
gifts for a name.

He said, among others,
I will bring
(and the phrase was just and good,
but not as good as mine,)
"the narcissus that loves the rain."

We strove for a name,
while the light of...

Iambic lines drafted in silt
are revised when glaciers melt
so verses ending in heroic couplet
are more epigram than sonnet.

Revised when glaciers melt,
continents submit to a warning.
The land is more epigram than sonnet
—no—more erasure than given form.

As continents admit the warming,
the coasts...

After not showing in a poem how I once was boring, I spend weeks collecting proof  from my past for readers who wanted to know. I have difficulty deciding the best prop for my poem:

    A) from the outside,...

I keep rifles in the front closet.
                 Trespassing can be a glance.

A good shot,
                 I practice with bottles, bull's eyes.

I cross the line where the fence...

Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987....

Do not allow me to sink, I said
To a top floating ribbon of kelp.
As I was lifted on each wave
And made to slide into the vale
I wanted not to drown. I wanted
To make it all right with my dear,
To tell...

The best-known German goldsmith of the sixteenth century, Wenzel Jamnitzer, is also remembered for his study of the five platonic solids, Perspectives of Regular Bodies, in which he proposed that out of the same five bodies one can go on...

Because the butterfly’s yellow wing
flickering in black mud
was a word
stranded by its language.
Because no one else
was coming — & I ran
out of reasons.
So I gathered fistfuls
of  ash, dark as ink,
hammered them
into marrow, into
a skull thick
enough to keep
the gentle curse
of  dreams. Yes, I...

Wherever we go, needs feed and I find it harder and harder to
believe benevolence is the thing Thousands of Yazidi girls

missing and plastic fills the ocean’s mouth and the cursive of
yr name still occupies the canopy of my throat Fuel,...

Tiny bit of humanity,
Blessed with your mother’s face,   
And cursed with your father’s mind.

I say cursed with your father’s mind,
Because you can lie so long and so quietly on your back,   
Playing with the dimpled big toe of your left foot,   
And looking...

Poetry, I tell my students,
is idiosyncratic. Poetry

is where we are ourselves
(though Sterling Brown said

“Every ‘I’ is a dramatic ‘I’”),
digging in the clam flats

for the shell that snaps,
emptying the proverbial pocketbook.

Poetry is what you find
in the dirt in the corner,

overhear on...

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper....

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .

I...

I placed a jar in Tennessee,   
And round it was, upon a hill.   
It made the slovenly wilderness   
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.   
The jar was round upon the ground   
And tall and of a port in...

                                                                  not self
 
of                                                                                     violence
 
                                                       against                   will  not  be  gainsaid
                                                                                         will  brook  no  argument
                                                                                         won't  suffer  the  fools
 
                                                                                                                                 gladly
                   would   I   climb   a
            mountain         of       salt       with       you
 
before  dawn                                      lodestar             my  freight                    the  violent

            silence                                            the  most  beautiful                       word

                                                                                  is

                                                                                 trespass

I'm feeling by ear.

Consider them gods and not cruel but ecstatic.
They have trick tongues and can't talk straight but use us as waves to curve words.
In this moment we are here for their ride. Climb on under.
Transport poetics in the...

We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,   
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,   
Our stitching and unstitching has...

We were supposed to do a job in Italy
and, full of our feeling for
ourselves (our sense of being
Poets from America) we went
from Rome to Fano, met
the mayor, mulled
a couple matters over (what's
a cheap date, they asked us; what's
flat drink). Among...