In the Iliad, there is no natural death--
everything comes about by intent
as if the pulse and very breath
we take were something meant
Evening succeeds evening.
on familiar topics.
Not spent those bloodshot friendships those
soul-marriages sealed and torn
those smiles of pain
I told her a mouthful
Four previously unpublished poets are honored as winners of Discovery/The Nation 07, the annual Joan Leiman Jacobson Poetry Prize of The Unterberg Poetry Center.
Communism, Catholicism and radical Modernism meet on the dissecting table of César Vallejo's poetry.
The tractor has left rows in the grass,
somewhat like rows of cut cane. Louisiana,
I take you everywhere.
The field itself is a giant row
between aisles of fir and alder,
a chute running west to east,
as I will run west to east,
not like the hurrying of the sun--
beginning and end being one and all that.
Some might call this loafing.
It is such a pleasure at this point
not to care what the locals
in their trucks, the loggers,
and the UPS man might think
if they saw me from the road.
A field with no boundaries,
an expanse of tideland
is more honest really
my back sinking in the mud,
high tide covering my joy.
A poem in tribute to the passing of James Brown.
It's hard to know whether today or yesterday was the full moon;
excitement isn't rigorous. It's just river-silvering