Archive for February, 2022

Monday, 28 February 2022

Anger by Max Sessner

I want to be someone else a
yellow midday spreads itself out
all the way into my pocket
where coins clink and my
fist lives with which today I
would like to hit someone
in the face but that will subside
in the evening the hand of a
strange poet opens by itself
then lies in front of me and
I lay the television
remote in it which it
clearly likes because suddenly
we are friends have already lived
on the same bank of the river
a very long time


Date: 2019 (original in German); 2021 (translation in English)

By: Max Sessner (1959- )

Translated by: Francesca Bell (19??- )

Sunday, 27 February 2022

On a Day of Remembrance by Jed Myers

International Holocaust Remembrance Day, 2022

Let’s remember how they thought
they were finally cleaning things up.
Taking care of the rodent problem.
Not strange. The same way
we had the man spray downstairs
when moths had invaded the carpet.
You know how your scalp will itch
when you hear there are lice. Let’s
remember this, inheritance meant
to make our skin crawl at the chance
of a spider, a scorpion, ants.
Older than ancient. Ancestral.
Remembrance? Let it spread across
every checkpoint and wired wall,
to touch all our swatting hands.


Date: 2022

By: Jed Myers (1952- )

Saturday, 26 February 2022

My Mother Wants a Cigarette by Ralph James Savarese

Our public health officials have discovered irony,
that wind chime on the porch of the gods,

that spangled irritant. They’re like an older person
with an iPhone, taking selfies, watching videos.

“Now, how does this app work?” They tell us
smoking offers some protection from the virus.

Apparently nicotine inhibits the way it woos
a lung. Think of smoking as a vow of chastity.

Cigarettes and monks both come in packs—in little,
wolf-like monasteries. Their brown and white

Trappist robes beg for a match. At vespers,
fending off the Evil One, they’re all aglow.

Yet when lungs say yes, oh yes, and then elope,
death’s due parting comes more quickly.


Date: 2020

By: Ralph James Savarese (19??- )

Friday, 25 February 2022

Another Boundary by Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu

the old men left
the young hearts boundaries
stones broke out from their roots
like a dry bread split on the knees

the dough didn’t rise anymore
under the hand stitched towel
brick dust is sifted slowly
on a spider’s nest
in the bread oven’s window

next winter will pass quickly
everything will freeze under cold chimneys
like in a dry ant mole
cut with a scythe

only in March when the earth
will germinate its fangs
the house vineyard will cry
with cold sweat in each new shoot

at Easter all great grandchildren
barely having learned to walk
will step over dandelion flowers
burning in the yard
lightly and without traces


Date: 2012

By: Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu (1971- )

Thursday, 24 February 2022

Doppelgänger by Romana Iorga

I envy the tree for growing its leaves
without guilt. For pushing roots
into soil without fear. In a parallel
world, an identical me
has already put her kids to bed
and is writing. Her house is clean.
Her dog, well-trained. Dinner
was good and nutritious. The kids
ate their veggies without complaining.
We exchange dreams sometimes.
She dreams of my life and shudders.
I dream of hers and sink into
the ground. She and I like to go
out at night and look at the moon.
Her sky is no different than mine,
but her moon glows brighter.
She speaks and her moon answers.
I speak and my moon hides
behind a cloud. We both love a good
cry, though, if you ask me, she has
little to cry about. She finds me
intolerant. I find her stuck up.
Sometimes we hate each other’s guts.
Then the moon calls and we grow
silent. She glides through her
luxuriant garden in a diaphanous
nightgown. I stomp through
dusty weeds in my boots. Her moon
sends down a shimmering rope,
pulls her upward through the branches.
My moon decides it’s time
for an eclipse. Earthbound, I am
resigned to my fate. Someone
must carry the brunt of imperfection.
Each night, like a dumb, moon-
struck beast, I show up for the task.


Date: 2022

By: Romana Iorga (19??- )

Wednesday, 23 February 2022

Tó by Jake Skeets

A mother with humming pulse,
uranium holy, conjures the first atom.
Then pelvis, backbone, smoke—a leg’s language.

The beginning, a girl—erosion slather of earth
and vein. Bitter tides of water saint the church
in her throat. Enough to callus her skin—her body bent
into locust, into tower. She mountains a mountain’s physics.

The A’s stretch opens a tongue bleed—
more water. Its time gusts through the pulpit
woven with voice box. Its light wombs geometry.

A mother steps into quiet currents and hears
the first word flung from an open hand.
Her mouth pedals open around the sound—
one cicada click underneath the water.


Date: 2021

By: Jake Skeets (19??- )

Tuesday, 22 February 2022

(The Moon Lady) by Diana Cao

My shadow stains the moon. Will I return to Earth?
Everything looks brighter here, but not as clear.

Everything looks brighter here, but not as clear:
A million compromises crowd our Earth.

I’ve made a million compromises since birth:
When I was a girl, I was the last to eat.

I was still just a girl—I longed to eat
Treats baked at dawn with egg yolk, lotus, red bean,

Your mooncakes split at dusk with lotus filling.
The elixir of life wasn’t nearly so sweet.

The elixir of life went quickly, my sweet—
I betrayed you, drank it all,

I drank it all down. My betrayal
Stains the moon. Will I return to Earth?


Date: 2021

By: Diana Cao (19??-)

Monday, 21 February 2022

I Loved Him by Lang Leav

I loved how his eyes danced merrily,
and the gentle way he spoke;
the way he filled my aimless days,
with bitterness and hope.

I loved him as I fell to sleep,
and each morning as I woke;
I loved him with all my wayward heart—
until the day it broke.


Date: 2016

By: Lang Leav (1980- )

Sunday, 20 February 2022

Proximity by Michael Faudet

We joined the dots
from A to B,
the line we drew
from you to me,
traced empty shores
across the sea,
over mountain top,
past forest tree,
along the roads
and walking tracks,
all bridges burned,
no looking back,
for the love
we have,
no gate can stop,
no barking dog
or bolted lock,
for what is real
is meant to be,
when two hearts
in proximity.


Date: 2016

By: Michael Faudet (19??- )

Saturday, 19 February 2022

It Is Here by Harold Pinter

(for A)

What sound was that?

I turn away, into the shaking room.

What was that sound that came in on the dark?
What is this maze of light it leaves us in?
What is this stance we take,
To turn away and then turn back?
What did we hear?

It was the breath we took when we first met.

Listen. It is here.


Date: 2002

By: Harold Pinter (1930-2008)