The Unexpected Harte
JS Apsley
Lady Lazarus Worries Me
after Sylvia Plath Her poem’s zigzagging lines. Its shout buried in soap and fury. The admission of having tried it twice before, though it didn’t stick should have warned us. God, I wish someone had read it closer. Had known. Had said, Girl, get your head out of
Discovered Cries
I thought my favorite sound was classical guitar: thin rosewood shaping pitches warm, round, bright. But yesterday a seagull called, quite loud, its high staccato song, forlorn, a tragic promise, hungry but resigned. My body opened, lightness spread through me, through chest, limbs, face, with muscles loosened; I rose with
Träumerei
The Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage (1874) by Edgar Degas
The young girls are like linen hanging out to dry, breeze-buffeted and slightly see-through. They pose, wait with awkwardly clasped hands, rehearse their steps. Upstage, just off-center, a ginger-haired ballerina pulls her hair away from the nape of her neck, perhaps caught mid-yawn or breathless
Showstopper
There I was torn chiffon & tarnished silk, the spotlight froze it all– dust settling from the warm light, eyes of serpents or fox or both, mouths agape & the announcer’s stuttering words. one hand over my breast, the other holding the remains of my gown; I still feel
Mood Swings
A tear (drop) through my eye lands on the machinery of my cheek And sparks shoot off of my crackling face The mask distorts in unnatural twitch A pole in my brain spins and spits ribbons of storm as a giant flying carousel rises from the top of my head
The Best Laid Plans
Robert Jakucs
Godsend
Davor Mondom
Sepulchress
Digging beneath the dirt of my body is the only way I know to escape it: its fatal birdcage, its sung prison of bones. And as I labor You tell me of all the women who failed to listen, how now they are enshrouded in salt pillars & sunken in
The Bubble
Philip Dean Walker
Roberta's Little Creatures
An ekphrastic of Roberta Hahn Edward's 2025 watercolor of a "Little Creature" She started when still quite young, creating little husks of life on watercolor paper, bringing them into being, wringing them from pores in the sheet, bright and strange little monsters, never mean or dirty
Severed Hearts / Murdered Brains
Ecdysis
Still Life
Her Plastic Heart
Disintegration
Dinner
Desire in Ten Parts
Landscape
Scattering, Over and Over Now
The Poetry of Ma Dai
Gowpen & Undertow
Paper Birds at the Crosswalk
Equilibrio Instabile
Observance
Swimming
Leadore
The Word Made Flesh
With Every Classmate I’ve Lost, I Feel like I’ve Failed a Test
Inflection Point
Here To There
A Conversation with Salvator Rosa
The Poet as Thief
“Donc le poète est vraiment voleur de feu.” — Arthur Rimbaud Was Prometheus a poet? Rimbaud says he was, stealing fire from the gods: technology, knowledge, human arts and sciences. He paid a terrible price for his audacity. Whatever was he thinking? Look what we have done with what he gave