The Contrariness of the Mad Farmer
Friday, December 17, 2021
The Contrariness of the Mad Farmer by Wendell Berry
Thursday, December 16, 2021
Privacy by Ada Limón
Wednesday, December 15, 2021
Mountain Dew Commercial Disguised as a Love Poem by Matthew Olzmann
Mountain Dew Commercial Disguised as a Love Poem
The Space Heater by Sharon Olds
The Space Heater
Monday, December 13, 2021
Little Spy in My Bedroom by Yusef Komunyakaa
Little Spy in My Bedroom
Sunday, December 12, 2021
The Second Slaughter by Lucia Perillo
The Second Slaughter
Saturday, December 11, 2021
The Little Box by Vasko Popa
The Little Box
Friday, December 10, 2021
Visiting San Francisco by Vijay Seshadri
Visiting San Francisco
I wanted to curl up
in the comfortable cosmic melancholy of my past,
in the sadness of my past being passed.
I wanted to tour the museum of my antiquities
and look at the sarcophagi there.
I wanted to wallow like a water buffalo in the cool,
sagacious mud of my past,
so I wrote you and said I’d be in town and could we meet.
But you think my past is your present.
You wouldn’t relent, you wouldn’t agree
to dinner or a cup of coffee or even a bag of peanuts
on a bench in North Beach.
You didn’t want to curl up or tour or wallow with me.
You’re still mad, long after the days
have turned into decades, about the ways I let you down.
The four hundred thousand ways.
Maybe I would be, too.
But people have done worse to me.
I don’t think I’m being grotesque when I tell you
I’ve been flayed and slayed and force-fed anguish.
I’ve been a human cataract
plunging through a noose and going to pieces on the rocks.
I’ve been a seagull tethered to Alcatraz.
What can I say, what more can I say, how much more
vulnerable can I be, to persuade you
now that I’ve persuaded myself?
Why can’t you just let it go?
Well, at least I’m in San Francisco.
San Francisco, where the homeless are most at home—
crouching over their tucker bags under your pollarded trees—
because your beauty is as free to them
as to the domiciled in their
dead-bolt domiciles, your beauty is as free to
the innocent as to the guilty.
The fog has burned off.
In a cheap and windy room on Russian Hill
a man on the run unwraps the bandages
swaddling his new face, his reconstructed face,
and looks in the mirror and sees
the face of Humphrey Bogart. Only here
could such a thing happen.
It was really always you, San Francisco,
time won’t ever darken my love for you,
Thursday, December 9, 2021
Skeletons by Deborah Landau
Wednesday, December 8, 2021
How to be a son by Omar Sakr
How to be a son
Tuesday, December 7, 2021
Curl by Diane Seuss
Monday, December 6, 2021
us by Tory Dent
Sunday, December 5, 2021
Jack Johnson Does the Eagle Rock by Cornelius Eady
Jack Johnson Does the Eagle Rock
Saturday, December 4, 2021
Isn’t There Something by Jean Valentine
Isn’t There Something
Friday, December 3, 2021
Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me by James Wright
Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me
Thursday, December 2, 2021
little prayer by Danez Smith
Wednesday, December 1, 2021
Wait by Adrienne Rich
Tuesday, November 30, 2021
Out of Research Into Reveries by Mai Der Vang
Out of Research Into Reveries
Monday, November 29, 2021
Oracle by Ari Banias
Sunday, November 28, 2021
Love Poem by Linda Gregerson
Ghazal (Even the Rain) by Agha Shahid Ali
Ghazal (Even the Rain)
Friday, November 26, 2021
D.O.A. by Tim Dlugos
Thursday, November 25, 2021
Virginia Is for Lovers by Nicole Sealey
Virginia Is for Lovers
Wednesday, November 24, 2021
A Vision of the Garden by James Merrill
A Vision of the Garden
Tuesday, November 23, 2021
Witchgrass by Louise Glück