Cry of the Occasion

Jake Adam York

–John Earl Reese, shot while dancing in a café in Mayflower,Texas, October 22, 1955 so loud it fills the valleys of even the fingers smeared into a kind of quiet, the everything you can’t hear but hear through the music…

The Diseased Language of Mo Yan

Anna Sun

“It has often happened in history that a lofty ideal has degenerated into crude materialism. Thus Greece gave way to Rome, and the Russian Enlightenment has become the Russian Revolution. There is a great difference between the two periods. Blok…

Time Capsule

Shavonne Clarke

We buried the capsule in the backyard, a few inches under the ground. We were thirteen, an age that shivers indeterminate: you know nothing or you know everything. …

The Bloodpeople in the Language

Thomas Glave

And even now being in Jamaica and writing this and knowing that I am writing these words thinking about death and the end of all things and the loss of everything—for loss has indeed recently come very near; has knocked, made itself felt, known, present.…

How to Know the Unbearable

Karen Malpede

The governor of New York, Andrew Cuomo, saw it happen. The Hudson River met the East River in the middle of downtown Manhattan. Water roared down the streets, rushed into tunnels, and filled the World Trade Center construction site. A…

Margin, Error; Wanted

Elizabeth Lindsey Rogers

Margin, Error

Vincenzo Galilei (1520-1591), lutenist, composer, music theorist, and father of Galileo Galilei

The numbers always failed
when forced with heaven’s
weight: absolute, holy

The Golem of Zukow

Helen Maryles Shankman

The Mirsky mill nested at the fork of the Bug and Wlodawa rivers, near the liquid and ever-changing border with the Ukraine. At the hub of a cultivated patchwork of plowed fields, the plain stone structure could be observed for…

Art of Losing: On Raptus by Joanna Klink

Rachel Richardson

Joanna Klink’s Raptus begins with an epigraph from Charles Olson that reads like a preemptive admonishment: “Love the World—and stay inside it.” Yet, from the first lines, Klink’s speaker is practicing letting go. …

Mr. Edwards and the Spider

Robert Lowell

From The Kenyon Review, Winter 1946, Vol. VIII, No. 1 I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn. But where The…

Libya’s Day of Liberation: One Year On

Khaled Mattawa

Tripoli, Oct. 24, 2012: A dispatch from the poet and translator Khaled Mattawa one year after the liberation of Libya. Yesterday was the anniversary of the collapse of the Qaddafi regime. He was caught and killed on October 20th of…

H^e Sapa

Layli Long Soldier

One.

H^e Sapa is a horn is a mountain, is a black horn or black mountain, as it is the same in this language. Remember. And is not a black hill, not Paha Sapa, by any name you call it.

The Woman You Don’t Expect

Elizabeth Kate Switaj

The woman you don’t expect to leave your door unlocked, because no one but you and the leasing agent had the key, wears tall, slender heels. If they were Crocs or shredded boots discarded by the door, you wouldn’t see how her untucked blouse fluttered with her breath or how her body (tall, slender) curled itself into native indentations on the couch.…

Self-Machinationi & Motesii: an Essay on Attempt

Julia Cohen

i This word was found on the web of flesh between thumb & pointer. On the day our stranger broke the kite in a park waxing with leashless dogs, strollers, bubble pipes. No words met me in the grass. Your word knelt under the bed of the left hand. Your word stood up & shook its mane like splinters from an exploding coffin.

Silent Dragon

Rafael Acevedo

Translated from Spanish by Erica Mena

          in Borges, in origami

          Unfortunately
the last dragon travels the streets of Tokyo
trailing a wake of escaped paper,
thinking about the future of the yen.…

Over the Peace Line

Amanda Aszman

On the eleventh night of July I stuff my swollen feet into a pink pair of welly boots and open the door to a city that’ll soon catch fire. The wee boys and girls of Belfast had their fun earlier…

On Manoleria
by Daniel Khalastchi

Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum

Daniel Khalastchi’s debut collection of poetry, Manoleria (winner of the 2011 Tupelo Press/Crazyhorse First Book Award), was written over the winter of 2006-2007 at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. Finding their genesis in NPR’s Marketplace, the hour-long financial news report, Manoleria investigates the toll that political, social, and economic unrest in the U.S. and abroad has on its citizenry.…

Undertaking

Anne Germanacos

A full self requires stillness.
I am coming upon the face, the shape of it.

• •

Scratched pots and pans, wooden mallets hard enough to beat in a head. Sieves, bowls, scissors, tongs. Ladles.

Have we humiliated the house of our mother?

Small Bang Theory

Anne Shaw

for Glen

He says, You don’t need a religion. Woman,
you are a religion, and describes how the hints of things impinge
pushing their shapes before them as they rise

Diorama of a Funeral; Diorama of a Tiny Death

Rochelle Hurt

Diorama of a Funeral

I pour a salt solution into the shoebox, enough
               to float the whole chrysanthemum rigmarole—

rubber bouncy balls: my aunts like buoys
               in a sea of black felt, draped like mourning

Remedy

Hannah Pass

She said, “Drink it,” and I asked, “What is it?”

Karen was holding a glass stein, her mother’s German crest peeking out just below her pinky. “A remedy,” she said. “Just drink.” We were sailing on our honeymoon and I was feeling a bit seasick.

Hurtling Along: on Ennui Prophet by Christopher Kennedy

Lauren Goodwin Slaughter

America has been bedazzled to death. According to the knee-buckling prose poems in Ennui Prophet, Christopher Kennedy’s fourth collection, grocery stores, chain bookstores, all-terrain vehicles and other symbols of Western excess have embellished the landscape and also our selfhood in the most boring, indulgent ways. Our connections with each other, the world, and ourselves are in danger.…

weekend-readsCloud Country

James Merrill

How like a marriage is the season of clouds.
The winds at night are festive and constellations
Like stars in a kaleidoscope dissolve
And meet in astounding images of order.

Sign up for Our Email Newsletter