Tag Archives: poem

Poetry: I Loved You From Another Star by Rosebud Ben-Oni

Girl waiting on bench bus stop illustration

rt Bluesaga331

I Loved You from Another Star

He’s always coming back, our neighbor, never quite here.
His wife, who teaches English, will never leave Seoul,

so he’s present part-year
                               past-participle— a joke he tells without a face.

We watch
his cat Monkra who looks exactly like our cat, who also wakes him
before sunrise, whining for food. Call him Momo for short,
and we do, no questions. He deals in import-export,

never carries a briefcase, only a pamphlet
of English grammar his wife authored.

He says she doesn’t understand

what I do for a living,

that poetry is for children and nine-tailed foxes

favored in Korean dramas that he and I discuss in secret,
away from our disapproving spouses.

read more at Berfrois

Rosebud Ben-Oni

Poetry: New House by Geraldine Connolly

There’s always the illusion the museum I carry
inside me, of coal dust, black bread and worn-out brooms
could turn into a seaside palazzo of framed lithographs
and immaculate linens. There’s the hope that some magical
storm could sweep over my life, making dinners prepare
themselves, dust motes fly back into the atmosphere,
newspapers slide out of their messy heaps into trash bins.
Geraldine Connolly, Rattle

Poem: Figure and Ground

I try to understand the small outside I let in that year:
artichoke, orchid, what was beautifully composed. I admired
every sentence he spoke and the valleys of grape
Lauren Camp, Heron Tree

Poetry: Daughter

Let us take the river
path near Fall Hill.

There we will negotiate
an outcrop with its silvered
initials & other bits of graffiti,

all the way to the broken edge
that overlooks the bend,
& hold hands until

we can no longer tell
where the river ends.

-Jon Pineda, via Poets.org

Poem: Disciple

You eat Utah,
literal salt of the earth,
briny efflorescence of an ancient shoreline.
Eat the rust-iron pink and shimmer-silver
encrusting the ruptured bedrock
you walked across in summer sun,
infused in every form –
in the soup’s roux, in simple Sunday eggs,
in homemade oatmeal cookies’ savory edge.

read more at Blue Five Notebook (scroll down to the third poem)

-Susan O’Dell Underwood

Blue Five Notebook has done it again with their latest issue – I love them because they always contain works that are unexpected, that twist into your gut with a shiver of delight and surprise. I had the great honor to be published by them a year or so ago.

Poetry: A Moral Color

Under the yonder, I searched for my name in a blue
book. The pages were doors without knobs or keyholes, yet,

because blue comforts the eyes, the tome opened up to me.
Suddenly I had a taste for blue; it depicted the impossible.

For both Greeks & Romans there was no blue in the rainbow,
but here, by sunlight, the most audacious sapphire. And so

I forsook the allure of verdigris, cochineal, & mulberry
& walked to the river where, having polluted the water, the dyers

waited for it to clear. Rather than tinctures, a miraculous
draft of fishes came up with their buckets. But this was

not the end, nor the beginning, of my faraway look away.

-L.S. Klatt, Blackbird

Poem: EVERYTHING’S GOING TO BE OKAY

reading illustration

(illustration by sososimps)

EVERYTHING’S GOING TO BE OKAY

I’m going to write one of those novels you can’t
put down. The kind where you don’t know what’s
going to happen, and you want to know what’s
going to happen, so you sneak the book into the
bathroom to get a few pages in while your wife
thinks you’re brushing your teeth or showering,
or you take it to work and hope your workstation
walls are high enough to keep the book secret.

read the rest

David Ebenbach, Stirring

The Bird and the Cloud and the Too-Small Girl

The bird who turned white from trying to love a cloud

so hard she almost misted him into dust

How one day the bird flew to the cloud and said,

“Finally, after years of waiting,

I can’t tell if I love you because you are a cloud

or if I love you because you are made of water

read more

Kallie Falandays, Nightblock

Poem: ‘Not Monet’s Giverny’

In our snow globe of good-byes we leave
cities burning, arguments still on fire.

We do not touch but force ourselves

into pockets and gloves.
Winter stumbles on: questions

without answers.
Glass bridge of exits, cracked runway lights

flared blue and gold.

We travel through forlorn gates
the size of breadbaskets

do not stop for sweets or tea.

read more

Susan Rich, Sweet Lit

Poem: ‘To Go to Lvov’

To go to Lvov. Which station
for Lvov, if not in a dream, at dawn, when dew
gleams on a suitcase, when express
trains and bullet trains are being born. To leave
in haste for Lvov, night or day, in September
or in March. But only if Lvov exists,
if it is to be found within the frontiers and not just
in my new passport, if lances of trees
—of poplar and ash—still breathe aloud
like Indians, and if streams mumble
their dark Esperanto, and grass snakes like soft signs
in the Russian language disappear
into thickets. To pack and set off, to leave
without a trace, at noon, to vanish
like fainting maidens. And burdocks, green
armies of burdocks, and below, under the canvas
of a Venetian café, the snails converse
about eternity. But the cathedral rises,
you remember, so straight, as straight
as Sunday and white napkins and a bucket
full of raspberries standing on the floor, and
my desire which wasn’t born yet
Adam Zagajewski, Poetry Foundation
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