By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated By Stephen Mitchell
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with…
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with…
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- By Ama CodjoeWhat if, Betye, instead of a rifle or hand
grenade—I mean, what if after
the loaded gun that takes two hands
to fire, I lay down the splintered broom
and the steel so cold it wets
my cheek? What if I unclench the valleys
of my... - By Nick MakohaSAMO© first appears as a tag on a New York
City wall in 1978 two blocks down from Aswad
bookstore… - By Cyrus CassellsThat was the season I couldn’t think or write indoors,
the garrulous springtime every strophe,
every felicitous story’s pulse
could only be crafted in tranquil cloisters,
illuminating belvederes, or rambling villas.
Luckily, it was an unbridled spring,
all immoderate daisies and sunlit pediments,
a bustling April, May,... - By S.J. Fowler & Rebecca Kamen
- By Maurya SimonDelirium in the downtown mall today:
Burt Reynolds! All the henna-haired girls
sneer, while their mothers, enthralled, say,
“I saw you in this, I saw you in that–
you were marvelous, simply... - By Richie HofmannMy sweat soaked the sheets.
You used to be like everyone else
but then
the way you hurt me (fingers, teeth):
I grew accustomed to it
then I craved it
then I got bored
and other men tried to put death into my mouth.
Angelic Richie with bite... - By Genevieve ArlieThe geometer wishes he were David
cut from stone by lightning, his mind
gyring wide into figures of space
out of time, ever gauging the shock
of the word for the pathos, ever
slinging the rock of his wound
at the sugared glass of me.
I'd rather... - By W. H. AudenAbout suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous... - By Mark Kirschen1.
Details frighten me.
As the trembling blue
Strokes of
The cathedral imply
It has been there
And it has not been there
Since the thirteenth century.
Details frighten me.
2.
To live only near water.
The brush
The trees, the river.
Sunlight will not break us—
Rather
We move illumined
Return daily, Monet
Returning daily
To save... - By Duane NiatumAs salmon awaken to the pulsing dawn,
he hears night heron farther down the Skagit River.
The grey sky turning to white spirals
calls winter one word blessed with distance.
In the dark, his home rests in echoing waves.
White blossoms cover willow, woodpile, the... - By Anni LiuThere was a woman who claimed to be made of rain. Dust and the water that closes around it like a pearl, like any conglomeration of past irritations. She claimed no resemblance to Venus in her half shell, or to...
- By Marianne ChanBiddle City was painted by no one, but I will paint it now.
First, I will use my flat, long-haired brush, spread gray-blue paint evenly over the canvas.
Then, I will capture the art deco building by the capitol, the free-standing barber... - By Tina Mozelle BrazielMy first trip, I scoured every floor
of the MoMA, winding around other patrons
before they could read “Alabama” on my tee.
I lingered over Birthday’s lovers
levitating into kiss, then moved as if driven
until I found, unreal and gleaming,
an Airstream. I made myself... - By Anzhelina PolonskayaRight now perhaps you're holding a horse by the bridle.
Perhaps you're with someone, the lights still on.
Is there any more freedom than in the word dearth?
I don't even know whether this is a poem or a diary.
In my whole life... - By T.J. ClarkThe sea in the wind in the half-light, clearing its throat of pebbles,
Cloud shadows coming down the mountain with the steady speed
Of a paddle wheel. Light on the foothills already gone,
So that you need not look at the seminary on... - By Holly Corfield Carrdistant water extinguishes the town
where it was thinkable for a mussel,
an animal that otherwise can’t die,
to grow slow and large and enough
to be, for us, a private luxury ocean
liner. We’ve made it, lads!... - By Miller ObermanI bring my students to the Frick to see Frank
O’Hara’s beloved Polish Rider, and after giggling
at the work Bronzino did on the silver painted crotch
of Lodovico Capponi, whose silk sprouts like a big
snail or scrolled bedpost between his legs, we... - By Ian PopleSummer dust settled over the garden
in bloom and full of bees, their hives
full of such marketable honey, you
bought a jar. Then, amid the light blue
and white of the ground floor, there was
the lemon-yellow room and the room
in two pale blues... - By Shane NeilsonIn the famous American art gallery, they are looking at Starry Night.
In the famous American art gallery, I am looking at them.
What do we see in painting and audience? The same blue whorls of light, the same blue light that spins...