Barred and beating, the sharp fingers cut the air raise scattered quills Conjuring trick. Reptile. Fallen angel. Griffon from the pages of an illuminated bestiary. like gold falling through water. A broken marionette of light-splashed feathers. Like a turkey only turned right-way-up. An aviary. Then it was a box. Now miles of […]
Artist’s Statement These poems are from a larger collection, Women and Ghosts, which I conceived of as a book-length sequence on Shakespeare’s tragic women. In many of Shakespeare’s plays, violence against female characters is buried in other plot elements. These erasures are my attempt to excavate, and in doing so, redirect the focus of scholarly […]
The Chicago morning, humdrum like most other the air beginning to thicken this humid afternoon. White sunlight— summer sunset someone is playing. We live in a box. Years happen elsewhere. Some spread out wide near the surface some sink. I have to learn the simplest things last. Poor […]
The blues is where it’s at. The blues is a big house. Blues players will often tell you the blues is about life—the good parts and the bad parts. The blues is about overcoming hard luck, ridding yourself of frustration, letting your hair down. Blues is easy to play, but hard to feel. The blues […]
The Poems and Plays of Alfred Lord Tennyson (New York: The Modern Library, 1938) Jennifer Moore is the author of The Veronica Maneuver (The University of Akron Press), and What the Spigot Said (High5 Press). Poems have appeared in American Letters & Commentary, Best New Poets, B O D Y, Barrow Street, and elsewhere, and […]
In little jars and cabinets of my will I let myself believe that love was good. I held my honey and I stored my bread. A grizzly shook his head from side to side. He ambled slowly, sniffed the stuff inside my little jars, the cabinets of my will. He wasn’t hungry, but […]
I thought the west wind called me from my bed. I woke to sleep, and took my waking slow the night the river ran so hard. I followed, felt my fate in what I cannot fear. I woke to sleep, and took my waking slow across the moonlit lawns, across the road. I felt […]
Cather, Willa. Death Comes for the Archbishop. Cara Rodriguez is an English Instructor and poet from Casper, WY.
Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina. Translated by Constance Garnett. 2000 Modern Library Paperback Edition. Random House, New York. Joanna Thomas, Ellensburg, WA, is a writer and visual artist living on the wrong side of the railroad tracks that run through a small university town. Her work is influenced by Joseph Cornell, Kurt Schwitters, Charles Baudelaire, and […]
Internet Date, No Show In the rain, the lonesome In the rose garden in the park Short Internet Date I make really very little money I must tell you Internet S.T.D.ate Love’s very fleas Love’s very fleas are mine. Enter Winternet Date Now that I […]
In a field adjacent to the vineyard of the Lord, only weeds keep growing; water is a sympathetic institution— a dignified campaign. It’s one breath, it’s the same breath. It’s the hush morning’s cold, gray sack. The American Poetry Review (March 1, 2012). Jamin Waite, Lexington, KY, is a senior in the Literary Arts program […]
the butterfly’s face (or whatever the hell it’s supposed to be) and aluminum wings glide past like ducks in migration. I’m a volunteer with this passenger pigeon. The American Poetry Review (March 1, 2012). Jamin Waite, Lexington, KY, is a senior in the Literary Arts program at Lafayette High School-School of the Creative and Performing […]
Perrottet, Tony. “The Cave Dwellers.”Smithsonian Magazine. Ariana Yeatts-Lonske is a senior at Vanderbilt University studying English with minors in Psychology and Music. While living and studying in Nashville, she serves as the executive poetry editor of The Vanderbilt Review and associate poetry editor of The Nashville Review. Her poems have been recognized by The Vanderbilt […]
Jenkins, Sally. “The Mouth that Roared.” Smithsonian Magazine. Ariana Yeatts-Lonske is a senior at Vanderbilt University studying English with minors in Psychology and Music. While living and studying in Nashville, she serves as the executive poetry editor of The Vanderbilt Review and associate poetry editor of The Nashville Review. Her poems have been recognized by […]
No, love. Not chin— Part of your leg. This part I think it has to do with blood. Maybe relevant? Because in French blood is sang. A kind of song. When someone gives you something you feel you need to give them something in return. A short […]
Phillips, Ethel Calvert. Belinda and the Singing Clock.. Cara Rodriguez is an English Instructor and poet from Casper, WY.
When you have lots
and lots of something good:
Unable to bear his own weight, he relied on pneumatics to stay upright.
I stutter. That is the truth that I have lived, of course.
It’s taken me many weeks and still, I can’t do it right.
Dear, I could be worse. That’s one of my favorite sayings.
There are birds small enough to live forever.
I am kneeling like a small dog.
for some men one whiff of cowhide can induce an erection
How do you push aside your thick armor
to reveal your tender places?
If you blink, a brick might be thrown at your Volkswagen.
I. Preparation Applies foundation. Conceals a jersey hybrid german butterball. Polishes the holy mole. Her lovely red bases. Separates. Lifts long lashes. Cobras in ornamental fiesta for a casual date a parade. II. Her Miracle of the face. Translucent, loose. Red veined. Coral bells melting fire. Laugh […]
I have not the bitch-kitty face the King
doth like nor do I tremble when he glances down
he fastens the carcanet,
across her slender neck.
The cold of the metal
causes Jane to quiver.
the trees the thick the trees that trees these too the threes there
How did the car retrace our steps
I never wrote a poem
Oh! The wind wept
Take the apiary, stuffed / with sweetness
I disappear in acacia / lift the canopy’s skirt with my tongue
Lights come on / and stars are strung like Chinese lanterns–red / and yellow, fading, always out of reach.
A canto dongs nightly, / attaching God’s nylon— / a chanting godly snot
As the double feature began, so did you to un- / Begin. Carnation underfoot, tea splashing stars.
A tablespoon of golden, boiling smoke blows across the tripping racket of a clock. It’s like a tap-dance of dynamite, the darkness ticking, saying, “you,” “you,” “you,” saying yes. Now the ears of your ears awake and begin a joyous barking, begin to the roar of morning traffic. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, […]
This is where I want to live / flicked by a sealash, spun, pricked / at the edge of sand.
I was a feral / apparition. / Blank geometry.