Posts Tagged: National Poetry Month
People here think my accent
is charming because America
is young. Today at the Friday bakery
While John Berryman Crosses The Washington Avenue Bridge
6 January 1972
While John Berryman crosses the Washington Avenue Bridge,...more
Instantaneous Letter Writer
After the others go to bed, my lamp
the only light for six miles,
Apollinaire in Iowa
After “Les Colchiques”
The prairie is poisonous but pretty in autumn...more
Post-Apocalypse (with HGTV Magazine)...more
All the Unemployed Artists I Know Have iPhones:
We walked to the sea with a bucket
and a hand rake. We dug out our
kidneys, put them in the bucket, then
waited for rain you said the weatherman
promised. On the beach, we lay...more
Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Take me. Take this. My wasted life and all
its bliss—the sea of your waking body
When I said, I don’t remember, what I meant was
I wasn’t paying attention, or Quiet, I’m reading.
Similar to when I said, We should clean the living room,
what I meant was, Get your crap off the couch
Sestina After a Miscarriage
After that long loss they stumble home
with an empty locket and box of ashes,
stand crying on each other in the kitchen,
spill half the box into her hands
and out across the unwashed counter
trying to fill the one with the other.
HOW TO PURCHASE A FLIGHT...more
One Last Thing I Must Tell You About America
When spring comes at last
it rains white petals.
We Come Because the Romans Came, Joseph
You are a scene, an obscene staggering,
your legion balls cold & wanting
a beach or bayou, a hot place
how long has it been since
his legs stretched towards heaven?
lord, let him be, don’t strike him
for believing he’s you. he’s high
this morning, he called his body
his body & believed it...more
from “The Singing Ape, Or, Life in Pink”...more
According to the Testimony to the Grand Jury of Newport, Rhode Island by the Sailor John Cranston, After Throwing a Coromantee Woman Into the Sea, James DeWolf, the Captain of the Slave Ship Polly, Mourned the Loss of the Good Chair to Which He Had Strapped His Victim c....more
To start, love gets metaphorically steam cleaned by Grant Snider.
Brandon Hicks adds his two cents with “The Hierarchy” of artistic and literary achievement....more
Innocence: A Memoir
All souls grow roughly, out of careless errors.
This month brings two things: the moon and you, both at my breasts.
“We were just kids.” –Patti Smith
I’m asking if she wants
dumbbells on the top
or sort of smack down
Pending Approval for Suicide Barriers on the Golden Gate Bridge, Questions for the San Francisco Board of Supervisors
Chairman, can you update us on fog?
Chairman, how many nets can $76 million buy?...more
Welcome to National Poetry Month 2015! For the last six years, we here at The Rumpus have run a new poem every day in April (and often into May) to celebrate this under-appreciated art form. We’ve tried to be diverse in our choices, both in terms of the poets whose work we’ve featured and in the styles (or schools, if you will) of poetry we pulled from....more
Author’s note: I wrote this poem about five years ago when my relationship with my father was strained....more
City of Eternal Spring
My mind rises up as the silos of interchanges,
streams, passages of myself in floating layers
so nothing can connect, and I dream emptiness
on ships sailing to new places for new names,
this ship my hands cupped in front of me,
a beggar’s bowl, a scooped out moon, a mouth
opened to make noiseless screams, to arrange,
to begin, to break through to stop my arrogance,
believing what I touch, see, feel, hear, taste make
a case for being alive, so I can stop believing what
happens when a caterpillar dreams itself beautiful.
Without an imaginary world, without a proper backpack, without my little pink orb,
without an old tablet’s commandments, without a hair dryer, empty hands, empty
birdcage obscured by a crate of empties.
Left without a predictable choice, without direct involvement, without being wiser, left
without leave, left what I came with, left with myself....more
Prodigal Electrons Return to Shine
is the name of the movie
she wants to see,
the first the daughter
of a famous director
whose plots to her
always seemed designed
with more sophisticated
about a man who wears
gray excellent suits
and thinks too much
Pinkened quince with potatoes, cold for breakfast.
Stones by the door I’ve pocketed the last year.
Too bright today to see the road. One blue
for the sky, one for the hills, no shadows.
The spoons and how they fit as a group, each
one becoming plural.
And we entered the Valley of the Rogue.
And we slowed to a crawl.
The night’s envelope sealed us in.
After several hours, cars deep on the interstate,
we resigned ourselves: this first night
would be the gateway, the opening to a roguish place
where I would no longer have answers,
become unable to make plans, in other words: