Poetry Magazine
FROM THE CURRENT ISSUE OF
Poetry Magazine
After tonight, what’s left of you is you moving into my
dream
After tonight, what’s left of you is you moving into my
dream
Poem
By Sarah Ghazal Ali
Poem
By Martha Silano
Poem
By Paul Tran
Once I learned I could have the last word
I couldn’t stop having
I couldn’t stop having
it.
Once I learned I could have the last word
I couldn’t stop having
I couldn’t stop having
it.
Poem
By Bhion Achimba
Poem
By Maxine Hong Kingston
Translated By Chun Yu
Poem
By Shara McCallum
Diné bizaad is a language of patience and cunning. It is quiet, in the distance, like a coming
storm.
Diné bizaad is a language of patience and cunning. It is quiet, in the distance, like a coming
storm.
Article
By Kimberly Blaeser
Poem
By Sherwin Bitsui
Poem
By Nia Francisco
The clearest memory I have of my friend: his body perched like a sparrow atop the tallest
tree.
The clearest memory I have of my friend: his body perched like a sparrow atop the tallest
tree.
Poem
By Jesse Holth
Poem
By Miguel A. Vega
Poem
By Allison Swenson
Recent Features from Poetry
Prose from Poetry Magazine
By Constance JaeggiThis folio pairs my photographic portraits of US-based escaramuzas with commissioned poetry by the Mexican American poets ire’ne lara silva and Angelina Sáenz.
Prose from Poetry Magazine
By Ammiel Alcalay, Emna Zghal & Khaled al-HilliImportant in ways we have yet to comprehend.
Prose from Poetry Magazine
By Fred MarchantAn introduction to a Maxine Hong Kingston folio.
From the Poetry Magazine Archive
- PoemBy Philip MetresOoze, oud. Ease hearts whose eyes sink low.
Be hourglass in the pillaged O—.
Be wells none see. Unstoppered tears,
O oud, we gather in your bowl.
O ladle of ores, scoop ink here
now seeping from the foreigner,
be sighs, O oud, and cloven aches
in... - PoemBy Linda HoganSome of us are like trees that grow with a spiral grain
as if prepared for the path of the spirit’s journey
to the world of all souls.
It is not an easy path.
A dog stands at the opening constellation
past the great helping... - PoemBy Solmaz SharifAs the dead, so I come
to the city I am of.
Am without.
To watch play out around me
as theater —
audience as the dead are audience
to the life that is not mine.
Is as not
as never.
Turning down Shiraz’s streets
it turns out to be such
a...
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History
Poetry was founded in Chicago by Harriet Monroe in 1912.
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