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TagPoetry

Four Poems by Len Lawson

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We live on a graveyard arrowhead

where the Gullah battle haints and hags

and spirits of indigenous tribes

hover to claim what is theirs.

The Shape-Shifter

by Dawn Raffel

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Theatrix is chock-full of trap doors, of trompe-l’oeils and mirrors. The ground is not solid; the air is not safe; the coast is not clear; the rug will be pulled out from under your feet. You feel it in your bones. Svoboda’s lines are elegant but she is equally eloquent in moving the “parts that can’t speak, or parts speaking inaudibly,” the innermost parts of our messy and...

Four poems by Terese Svoboda

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The old comedienne moves her mouth, she does her stretches, her deadpan- without-so-much-as-a-twitch, and she times it. [It’s all about timing]. Old means she’s timed a lot [she may have timed out]. She always wakes early with perfectly useable patter that doesn’t have a story behind it. An existential joke, tailless they call it in the business.

Is Poetry a Job, Is a Poem a Product

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By Murat Nemet-Nejat

In plain English, the question of class has to do with money. Who gets paid what for what labor. In that respect, the poet belongs to the bottom of the economic totem pole. Each poet can do his or her tallying. Do you believe that you get a penny an hour for the numbers of hours you spend producing your poems?

In classical Marxism, income...

Four Poems by Rebecca Doverspike

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Contemplative Prayer
I.

In a cemetery, the same darkness as that between stars grows moss.  Time unlocks tunnels and tunnels behind those rocks.

Nine Poems by Hannah Grady

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The Fog   The fog came unpredictably as a gift (after the sticky sleep and awkward, stoic morning). I smelled toast but never saw it. The door closed and I cried a little in the bathtub.   Right, the fog - Hanging over the hole where the Nets will play someday, sliding down Dean Street as a happy hour pickleback might at half-time of Germany vs. Austria.   It came...

Two Poems by Margo Taft Stever

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Summer Rain

Mosquitoes attach themselves
to the undersides of leaves;
their husks litter trees,
shimmering underthings.

Children’s voices
unfold, always hungry.
They suck my limbs; their cries
bind my narrow bones.

The sawed-off edges
of their voices splinter,
crack. Children...

Like we all do

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by Megha Sood

Pain unravels slowly
like the filigree ends of a fern leave
unfurling in the dewy winter mornings
nature gives away the love
it stores and nurtures

Two Poems by Larry O. Dean

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by Larry O. Dean

Yanked from the freezer,
it doesn't resist, cubes dispersed
unevenly, one
side of the pale blue plastic tray
weighted down by a half-

Three Gertrude Stein Inspired Poems

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Rudy (after Gertrude Stein)

He’s senile.
He’s a scene
I’ve seen
in Aisle C.
He sees the Nile
in Aisle C.
See the scene of the Nile
Seen on the isle?
See the sea
seen in Aisle C?
The sea near this isle
isn’t the scene he sees.
but the isle he sees
...

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