Category Archives: Poetry

Remember, Body by Cavafy

Body, remember not only how much you were loved, not only the beds on which you lay, but also those desires which for you plainly glowed in the eyes, and trembled in the voice — and some chance obstacle made… Continue reading

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Structures in Sand, by John Ashbery

They still connect(it still connects?)—the feeling of the middle of the eveningas it is overtakenby its sides.And then everything must be taken upand washed and put back together again.Why is that so?True happiness(which we can’t have, while we are close… Continue reading

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Lines, by Vallejo

Each ribbon of fire, that in search of Love, I cast and vibrate in lamentable roses, births me to the burial of my eve. I don’t know if the throbbing where I search will be the painting of rock, or… Continue reading

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What The Living Carry, by Morgan Ashcom

I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling fingertips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the… Continue reading

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From “The Far Field” by Theodore Roethke

I dream of journeys repeatedly: Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula, The road lined with snow-laden second growth, A fine dry snow ticking the windshield, Alternate snow… Continue reading

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Entropy, by Neil Rollinson

Your coffee grows cold on the kitchen table,which means the universe is dying.Your dress on the carpet is just a dress,it has lost all sense of you now.I open the window, the sky is darkand the house is also cooling,… Continue reading

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The Pope’s Penis, by Sharon Olds

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate clapper at the center of a bell. It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a halo of silver seaweed, the hair swaying in the dimness and the heat – and… Continue reading

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“The Wreck” by Don Paterson

But what lovers we were, what lover,Even when it was all over -the deadweight bull-black wines we swungtowards each other rang and ranglike bells of blood, our own great hearts.We slung the drunk boat out of portand watched our unreal… Continue reading

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Die a Millionaire, by J.H. Prynne.

The first essential is to take knowledge back to the springs, because despite everything and especially the recent events carried under that flag, there is specific power in the idea of it that what is known can be used to… Continue reading

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Adams on Photographing Evil

“Few photographers themselves have, however, supported the use of the adjective “concerned” as a way of distinguishing one artist from another; they know firsthand that all art is the product of concern. They believe as a consequence that it has… Continue reading

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