I often use this poem, The Summer Day by Mary Oliver, in my poetry workshops to demonstrate the importance of paying attention in the writing of poems: Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale … Continue reading A Hidden Glimmering→
Wedding in Richmond they’re roasting a pig at Tuckahoe Plantation crowds gather on the grounds where little Thomas Jefferson once lived sweet jasmine tangles in the garden banjos play on the hill barbecued pork scents the air the bride with promises on her lips wears rosebuds in her hair a small schoolhouse still stands and the original kitchen butter churn in the corner pewter pitcher on the hearth a place out of time long skirts sway to the music newlyweds dance across the grass and the road has lost its edge thick with overgrown … Continue reading Wedding in Richmond by Carol Was→
Snow Falls Off Bare Branch At a reading, the poet responds to the art of the Japanese woodblock. But I only see the man’s head blocking my view, white hair combed counterclockwise, hiding terrain where grass no longer grows— pale heart of a lone chrysanthemum. As the poet cites Hiroshige’s cobalt skies, that mum becomes lotus on the bald pond at Shinobu. By the time she references Wild Geese Flying Across a Crescent Moon, I migrate to the edge of my seat, glimpse the side of his face. Hair parted at the temple, it … Continue reading Snow Falls Off Bare Branch by Diane DeCillis→
Sitting on my desk right now, asking for attention more ardently than any of the other chores I ought to be doing—such as my own writing, or, for example, this blog—are these two beautiful books of poetry. They have some things in common. Both writers are women, both write an eloquent lyric line, and both are past editors of this very magazine. Susan R. Williamson, while she still lived in Charlottesville, was the editor in chief of Streetlight for two years when it was still a print magazine. Roselyn Elliott was the co-editor for poetry … Continue reading Two Beautiful Books You Should See→
Links of Ladder Higher than a hired man’s head, a chain bubbles from the tree’s heart and falling thirteen links, dares a boy’s reaching, his pretending— its original purpose unknown. It is not a hanging tree or surveyor’s witness, but a yard-oak to dream under. The chain was left there in a fork by heart attack or by forgotten convenience, has provoked the grain to snarl and restless, has rubbed a triangle, an arrow, in the gray bark. He sees the ladder he must climb to know how chance and choice can be useful. … Continue reading Links of Ladder by Frederick Wilbur→
The Paperboy Sees No Wonder in It— the Snow Giving off the Only Light at 6 AM The boy could have lived forever sliding down a hill, after watching cartoons. Now the only cartoon is himself falling through drifts to the corner, where he’s one bundle binding himself to others by snapping open their plastic straps and sitting among the papers. He rolls them into funnels, slips them into plastic sheaths, while the first house tugs at him, and he gets up, his steps a kind of wandering from house to house, each one … Continue reading The Paperboy Sees No Wonder in It… by Rodney Torreson→
losing the word what is prayer but our limbic words offered to an uncertain trajectory, the cave images given language from our dark cities. i remember your prayer outside memphis whispered just beyond my hearing, lips moving beneath that crumbling billboard the veil between us never thin enough to reach a hand through your words, their white dust prophecy dying muffled against my palm 12 steps in california he is wary though the treatment center is close enough there is a lost coast inside of him, the jagged reach where his brain … Continue reading losing the word by Sharon Ackerman→
By Ross Taylor STEADY WORK Our drummer stopped too soon but we kept on– like walking off a cliff across the air. I played for her and him and others gone, the wasted dancers hopped a little more. I must repeat this till I get it right: at last she feared my nightly transformations. Her tears for me have cooled to silver bullets. And this: the hospital clocked his final minute then old deserted new as per tradition– all the newborns wailed under the lights. Dance without drums, love only rhyme, bury the … Continue reading Part of the Past→
We Always Called Him Fletcher Never by his first name Albert, or Mr. Fletcher. He was tall as a sugar pine, skin the color of freckled walnuts, walked our whole neighborhood hauling an extension ladder from job to job, his back gospel-straight. I knew nothing beyond his easy manner, and that one summer morning when I rode with my dad to snag him from the Shell Station where out back he managed to unfold from a lean-to, tools in tow. There were easy lies about Fletcher. His thank-you-mam gratitude for a bologna sandwich served … Continue reading We Always Called Him Fletcher by Barbara Conrad→
The Sheets Pulled Over When one thinks in love about love, he’s doing what he shouldn’t. He will get it wrong. What if everything were revealed? The apples and milk on your mind when we lay down in Washington Park in the busy green city, if those were left on the bus in Flatbush, had tumbled to the gummed up floor since, and were what occupied you as we rushed back to your bedroom, gripped with heat. When we come to love we come expecting to get some part of it exactly right. What … Continue reading The Sheets Pulled Over by Tanner Pruitt→
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