From the magazine:how we survived: 爺爺’s pantoum (i)
By River 瑩瑩 Dandelion
you had to know the currents, & the sun
stay shallow to keep warm in the waters.
you had to believe you…
stay shallow to keep warm in the waters.
you had to believe you…
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From the magazine:how we survived: 爺爺’s pantoum (ii)
By River 瑩瑩 Dandelionwe wore watermelon husks to hide
lost cargo floating east to hong kong
water lilies & crickets our last…From the magazine:Untitled/無題
By John Whalen-BridgeTranslated By Chun YuThe words of children
splash in grandmother’s mind
and ripple to now.
孩子的話兒
在祖母心中濺起
蕩漾至今。From the magazine:Malu Cycles/瑪璐循環
By Maxine Hong KingstonTranslated By Chun YuI pay.
In dream: Susie’s medical bill.
For real: Moana bar tab.
我付款。
夢中：蘇西的醫療費。
現實：莫阿娜酒吧賬。
Time I write …From the magazine:Deus ex Machina: A Ghazal
By Mag GabbertA teacher once said chaos touches everyone, so that became my refrain.
Did we want to lose all we had…- By Andrew FrisardiPRIMEAt dawn, the shapes of cypresses in fog
Were fingers pointing up from graves, as if what's born… - By Karl KnightsThe zoo is tough terrain; hilly.
I wheel as fast as I can —
then Mum shouts ‘Keep up!’
I stop. ‘Hand me… - By William Butler YeatsA sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her... From the magazine:Ceasefire Haiku
By Faisal MohyuddinAll night, the somber
Song of chimes. The winter wind
Grieves for Gaza too.
____
Rage:
the broken
heart
of …- By Sri ChinmoyUltimately everything
Becomes boring.
Even great miracles
Become boring.
Even the tremendous powers of… - By Jos Charlesits a secrete
the grls speeching mye hole /
inn 2 the lindens / wee go out
& playe footballe / verie nashenallie
how wee leeve a stall / piteus
wen the grls
speech me /
this is how u make a porno / ... - By Rajiv MohabirLook at your feet, so beautiful. Do
not step on the ground, filth will smear them;
your future will fill with pricks. He with a
fearful heart, understand dead. Death will dance
on your head — lift your eyes and see. I am
its servant,... - By Federico García Lorca1.
La cogida y la muerte
A las cinco de la tarde.
Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.
Un niño trajo la blanca sábana
a las cinco de la tarde.
Una espuerta de cal ya prevenida
a las cinco de la tarde.
Lo demás era muerte... - By BazeedIn the hiding
hour of autophagy
ghosts hang out all day and talk to us.
An archival haunting demanding tribute:
half a lime for breakfast every day.
بشرٌ يئنّونَ من الألمِ
human voices keening in pain
تُشعلُ أجسادَهُمَ النارُ
their bodies, consumed by fire
light up the... From the magazine:
Wundrkut Forever Ghazal
By Hari AlluriWhere are you now? Must we say farewell tonight? So many of us wonder.
God sobs in my arms, a wounded gazelle tonight. They stay for wonder.
Up in a pot of rice, up from a human zoo. Twisting, sleeping heads of...From the magazine:
My Hair Burned Like Berenice
By Ruth AwadDays of rain. The drey outside my window would keel
and the wind would plunder. My heart was valent
with possibility: I could be anyone now, half woman,
half asterism. Fragmental as a new year. Patron saint
of the rutilant and cindering. I could...- By David TaitA week of autumn snow, and today the sun,
the buildings fizzy with melting, the beggar
draping his sheets over the bank's homeless-spikes.
My daughter runs under the sycamore trees,
shouts look it’s still snowing, it’s still snowing,
clumps of old snow falling around her.
Who... - By James K. BaxterThe wish to climb a ladder to the loft
Of God dies hard in us. The angels Jacob saw
Were not himself. Bramble is what grows best
Out of this man-scarred earth, and I don’t chop it back
Till the fruit have ripened. Yesterday I... From the magazine:
Fourth Wall Arpeggio
By A. Van JordanLately, my friends ask me, out of love,
have I written about my mother,
who suffers under the storm of Alzheimer’s disease,
and I tell them, “I don’t write about my family,
never directly, at least.” To write this poem seems so
out of character...From the magazine:
“if” is a conjunction
By Kimiko Hahnif there is a river
more beautiful than this
bright as the blood
red edge of the moon if
i can conjure such
radiance and safety
as expressed shelter
then my task as woman
will be quenched.
yes, moon, yes, calendar
if there is a river
that will cleanse
my generous
innermost abyss,
then...