Douglas Oliver: The Weekend Curfew →
From the posthumous Douglas Oliver collection: Arrondissements, ed. by Alice Notley (Salt Publications, 2003)
Psalm - Stanley Moss →
God of paper and writing, God of first and last drafts, God of dislikes, god of everyday occasions— He is not my servant, does not work for tips. Under the dome of the roman Pantheon, God in three persons carries a cross on his back as an aging centaur, hands bound behind his back, carries Eros. Chinese God of examinations: bloodwork, biopsy, urine analysis, grant me the grade of fair...
G. C. Waldrep - The Electricity of Your... →
Take a deep breath: there, now you’ve stooped to doing what poems tell you. It’s all downhill from here: the sordid parties, the fabulous butterflies that winter in the brain, leaving it choked with newscasters and verdigris. When you obey the poem, you always find yourself, sooner or later, in the darkest corridor of the grand hotel inside the moon, looking for either a lavatory or else the...
Robert Creeley: The Plan Is The Body - from Away...
F.P. Jac (1955 - 2008) - R.I.P.
i’ve been on the booze i’ve been on the booze ever since i could make head or tail of myself, a late-flowerer i refused war threats abstained from being for or against christ and began to take my own pictures straight from the skin, disappeared at every crucial moment so as to find peace at some outer place, find value perhaps next to a girl’s temple that clearly reflected orgasm. i had to get...
Drunken Boat 9: Barbara Tran →
Louise Glück: Archaic Fragment →
I was trying to love matter. I taped a sign over the mirror: You cannot hate matter and love form. It was a beautiful day, though cold. This was, for me, an extravagantly emotional gesture. …….your poem: tried, but could not. I taped a sign over the first sign: Cry, weep, thrash yourself, rend your garments— List of things to love: dirt, food, shells, human hair. ……....
Grace Hartigan on poetry →
“How can I explain my love and respect for the poets who have enriched my life?” Grace Hartigan asks. “Poetry is the most pure of the arts. It is non-utilitarian. The expression does not give the creator power, prestige or money. It tells us what life is about, what it is to feel, to think, to question.”
Robert Gibbons - Maybe the New Year Will Bring a... →
Winter was long in Issa’s snowy, mountainous province. Issa ate his rice by the light of his neighbor’s lamp. On the first Day of the Tiger of each year, pilgrims could purchase the temple’s famous flints by lowering a basket with money into a hole. Unseen monks below would then exchange the stones for the money. This is all I know in the whole world about the poet who stole...
Kobayashi Issa (1763 - 1828)
New Year’s Day— everything is in blossom! I feel about average.