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Jordi Sarsanedas (translated from the Catalan by Stanley Moss)
It neighs through small farms and hills.
September is the name of this horse.
See its eye
clear the sharp horizon,
ripen the mountains.
Its hair scatters sun-pollen
over red clay.
Result Type
- Poem
Feature Date
- January 27, 2022
Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
The name of my father's village speaks
of the misery of pilgrims unwelcome
for their poverty, a thorn
-strewn hillside to keep them
at a distance from the house
of god for fear of their disfigurement.
Result Type
- Poem
Feature Date
- January 26, 2022
Gemma Gorga (translated from the Catalan by Sharon Dolin)
To get up early and check chat everything is in place:
that the windows have not aged too much overnight,
that yesterday's bread remains soft enough for the new day's
baby teeth, that the yellow smell of curry lingers
in the kitchen . . .
Result Type
- Poem
Feature Date
- January 25, 2022
Diane Seuss
The turkey’s strung up by one pronged foot,
the cord binding it just below the stiff trinity
of toes, each with its cold bent claw. My eyes
are in love with it as they are in love with all
dead things that cannot escape being looked at.
Result Type
- Poem
Feature Date
- January 24, 2022
I think part of my draw to “Still Life with Turkey” is the refusal to see the father in his casket, the processing of that decision, the decision to not look at death. In my writing, I look at death all the time. But when it came time to watch my sister die, that was impossible.
Result Type
- What Sparks Poetry
Feature Date
- January 24, 2022
Nehassaiu deGannes
We want to spin
our towels about us,
but stand in the damp—
a tintinnabulation of ankle bracelets
shifting, delicately rocking from one hemisphere to the other . . .
Result Type
- Poem
Feature Date
- January 23, 2022
Seán Ó. Ríordáin (translated from the Irish by Greg Delanty)
One icy morning I went out.
A handkerchief hung from a bush.
I reached to put it in my pocket.
Frozen, it slid from my grip.
Result Type
- Poem
Feature Date
- January 22, 2022
Roger Reeves
Who isn't dying to leave this house,
To go masked only in the shadow of one's animal-
Breathing, lonesome, unprotected, knowing
Nothing lives as foreignness or death,
That the black dog with the sword in his mouth
Passing from house to house will not bring its itch . . .
Result Type
- Poem
Feature Date
- January 21, 2022
Luisa Muradyan
I hold him close
and walk away from
other mothers singing
their own version of
don't be afraid
Result Type
- Poem
Feature Date
- January 20, 2022
Vénus Khoury-Ghata (translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker)
it should have been beautiful and it was merely sad
gardens departed this life more slowly than men
Result Type
- Poem
Feature Date
- January 19, 2022
