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by
Eugenio de Andrade.
Translated by Alexis Levitin.
Like a thief or a woman
of the streets: you come at night.
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by
Anne Frydman
A straight line of tiny stars.
Sunlight through bushes.
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-
by
Anne Frydman
Cloud caught in a tree
In early spring. Day.
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by
Anne Frydman
Like the tree that stands
in the puddle of its shadow
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by
Jacqueline Michaud
Saturday morning, and there I perch
on the top step of the back stairwell,
proud of a skill that I’ve just mastered,
when my brother, pallid, comes into
the hall, asks me to go see if, finally,
he can get up now. OK, I say, but
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-
by
Alfred Nicol
Like Robert Burns, I too turn up a nest
while working, raking last year's leaves in spring.
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-
by
Alfred Nicol
Three rings? Supply is greater than demand.
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by
Hollis Robbins
If my reflection were not glass but flesh:
And I leaned in to touch my nose to nose—
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by
Hollis Robbins
Of amitié, the poets rarely sing.
Human bonds without the brutal claims
Of sex or blood, voluntary chains
Unlinked to kin or rank desiring—
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by
David Slavitt
Chorus of Mycenean Women
FIRST CHORISTER
She says nothing now but used to speak,
as the leaves of trees do or the birds on their branches,
with no one paying attention.
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by
David Slavitt
Chorus of Trojan Women
FIRST CHORISTER
How can we believe what a Greek says?
Their lives are lies and even silent
they breathe treachery.
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by
RT Smith
I visited New Orleans once before, our honeymoon.
We strolled beneath my parasol, amazed at the waves
and boats, happy for once, often in stitches with laughter.
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by
RT Smith
An owl,
or at least his eye,
peers out
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by
Lewis Turco
You wake up in the morning, and there it is —
Another morning. If you live through it
(And probably you will) the afternoon
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