when she says your mother should buy you an Easter dress I know that in some silent moment she forgot her daughter her eyes were green in every shade I can’t remember one who told you the truth about the final weeks—never dying less always traveling toward the
From an interview with Randolph Brightman, March 2052 I used to dream of being an astronaut when I was young. Read almost nothing but science fiction of the pulpiest kind, spent countless hours in front of the television taking in every iteration of Star Trek, and watched all the NASA
Keep your mouth shut and sit still Our leader is speaking right now Well, maybe not speaking He’s rambling to reporters There’s some truth buried in his nonsense Keep quiet, girl, keep quiet he’s speaking and we need to hear his plan on where we’re heading
To hear from, say, a friend you might have loved from whom you have not heard in quite a while and you know something of their drang and sturm so that you were beginning to worry, brings back the first play that you ever saw when the audience clapped for
W. D. Ehrhart
JS Apsley
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
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
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
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
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
Johanna Elattar
Robert Jakucs
Davor Mondom
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
Philip Dean Walker
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
a Close Family Friend has an adage: never trade a definitive Yes for a Maybe He never said a continuation for what I should do when the potential Maybe represents Everything I Want not that I want to leave Everything and Everyone I know for an Unknown but that the
My wife and I put out seeds to feed the little critters in our courtyard: wrens and juncos, mourning doves, squirrels, chipmunks, now and then a rabbit. This morning a cardinal. That reminded me of Cardinal Puff, a drinking game we used to play on Okinawa back in 1968; I’
“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
Today a Cooper’s Hawk perched itself outside our bedroom window on a low branch of a small tree not twenty feet away. The courtyard of our condo complex. Frequented by all sorts of wildlife: sparrows and wrens, mourning doves, juncos, hummingbirds, now and then a cardinal, chipmunks, rabbits, lots
The headline in today’s Inquirer shocked me to my very soul: “Baby Jesus Stolen from the Shrine of St. John Neumann,” Northern Liberties neighborhood, Fifth Street & Girard. In broad daylight, too. Okay, it was only a plaster figurine, not expensive, though very much beloved— according to the shrine’
Johnny Payne questions the idea of manifestos in poetry, preferring his own mantra: “Write poetry first with the ear, second with the eye, third with the mind.”
"God could be shaking a cocktail for me and I’d still/have a complaint."
Merion West arts editor Johnny Payne reflects on why Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind” endures over the centuries as one of the finest works written in English.
The curved universe reflected in this puddle Let us break our stride
