Posts tagged ‘2016’

Saturday, 20 November 2021

Blood by Cameron Conaway

He passed out, and the nurses
declined his bed so what blood he had
could rush to his head.

They’ve been pumping him full of fluids—
a move moving him closer to the end.

We whisper to each other because
the watching is heavy, and we want
to stir the silence gently.

Weeks later, we’ll wrap his near death
in the metaphors of our days: He circled
the drain twice, we ’ll say.

Our lightness will take us back to how
the magazines in the waiting room made
glamor the only kind of beauty, how
we felt in control turning their pages, how
the sweat beads on his forehead reminded
us that glistening is nothing without light,
how it’s too often this way: we fill men
with fluid when they most needed our blood.


Date: 2016

By: Cameron Conaway (1985- )

Monday, 10 May 2021

La Sorcière by Elline Lipkin

In literal French: a sorceress, a witch, also slang for any older, unmarried woman.  In French custom, a sorcière is also the name for a simple band worn as a safeguard above a wedding ring.

It curls,
a thin slice of dun moon, its pressed lips
un-made-up against the stars’ hoyden brass.

And lines,
a tin wrinkle marring the stone’s set face,
a pucker of grey band capping the light’s fall.

It twists,
the concierge against her 6 a.m. broom, restless to sweep
two sets of 4 a.m. prints, fugitives fled past her door.

And taunts,
the loose gleam off a crinoline, a fille de joie’s indolent wink,
bordered by the nun’s stern wimple, the crone’s weird glance.

It sets,
flash status against the spinster’s slow fade, last aunt,
the mystery within the sealed attic’s rat-a-tat-tat.

Then pairs,
two cards pulled side by side from the arcana,
the diamond’s naive reach, the queen’s argentine pall.


Date: 2016

By: Elline Lipkin (19??- )

Sunday, 28 March 2021

Tuesday is a Crab by Catori Sarmiento

Tuesday is a crab
sitting on my hand
that pinches at each hour.


Date: 2016

By: Catori Sarmiento (19??- )

Friday, 26 March 2021

Watching My Son Bloom into Summer by Armin Tolentino

His mossy crotch stains the shower floor green
and the drain is clogged with wet clumps of grass.

My boy unfolds into fronds of fern as he slowly sheds
any semblance of me. I’m losing his face through bark

and branches. His hair fluffs with pollen
and his armpits secrete a nectar so cloying

his room is filled with bees. He no longer speaks,
just stares out the window, lusting for sun.

I lie and tell him I understand, that it’s natural,
but my voice is lost through miles of forest.

I don’t know what to get him for his birthday.
I place a basket beneath his outstretched arms

and together we celebrate his falling leaves.


Date: 2016

By: Armin Tolentino (19??- )

Wednesday, 10 February 2021

The Forty-Year-Old Man: 13 by Peretz Davidovich Markish

With blood cries the East; with pus, the West
the squares in suburbs scream atop pyres

Like scrolls of blood fires unfurl
every flame a cry of alarm

A howl from the heap of greed and plunder:
the body on a scale like a giblet for the butcher

Pyres of flags and flags of blood—
The whip frolics on flesh and on life

Dawn, streets and cities awash in blood
the greedy sword of plunder is never slaked

Somewhere chimneys shout smoke like gullets
the forced lives of the big and small

Somewhere pits haggle – a mile in the earth:
blood against gold and – done! It’s a deal!

All equalized. Skin sliced from bodies, its price
ferried by waves on the stock exchange

The price of skin pitilessly flayed
of a life in chains, of dying in need

The price of children in a mother’s womb
for anxious mothers, the price of a night

Freeze on the bodies, turned towards fire
nations walk bent with hands that are bound

Nations bound in chains of need
prices etched and branded on skin


Date: c1952 (original in Yiddish); 2016 (translation in English)

By: Peretz Davidovich Markish (1895-1952)

Translated by: Rose Waldman (19??- )

Saturday, 9 January 2021

Awaiting a Poem by Hawa Gamodi

They await you:
The new poem

They await your downpour through my soul
My hands shaping your features

I stand with my heart agape
To observe this desolate world
As it falls into ruin

Blood covers everything

Prayers no longer know
Where to go

I await you
I listen for your cautious footfall

The world has become a graveyard
But the sun rises
The breeze caresses a girl’s cheek
The sea does not forsake its blue
The swallows tell me of my childhood
Hidden beneath their wings
And somewhere a boy foretastes a kiss from his lover’s lips

There’s so much love
And light

That you may pour down
Walk barefoot

I am writing you
My resistance to the ruin

I paint a glorious world
Illuminated by a poem
That they await.


Date: 2016 (original in Arabic); 2016 (translation in English)

By: Hawa Gamodi (1962- )

Translated by: Nariman Youssef (19??- )

Thursday, 7 January 2021

A Mindful Vacation by Ali Grimshaw

Between each breath
one, maybe two seconds at most,
a tiny space of nothingness.
My passport can’t get me there.
Driving faster, running harder,
multitasking while eating lunch
working later, doing more…
no closer to my destination.

“Where would you like to travel to?” they ask.

someplace between
and exhale.


Date: 2016

By: Ali Grimshaw (19??- )

Tuesday, 29 December 2020

Stand in the Light by Elizabeth Rimmer

Stand in the light.
Allow the wild things to creep
out of the shadows.
Welcome them all, the wet
bedraggled things, the ones
all spit and claws, the one
who weeps and hangs its head,
the one who stares, and says ‘Make me.’
Stand in the light. They are yours,
washed and unwashed alike.

Stand in the light, and sing.
Raise your voice as if
there was no fear of darkness.
Listen and you will hear
other voices, other songs,
rough and sweet and dauntless,
blues and canto jondo,
pibroch, nanha, tanakh.
Stand in the light and sing. Their pain
is yours. Allow it to hurt.

Stand in the light. Be still.
Light is what we need. Let it glow,
let it shine into the furthest dark
to find the lost forgotten hopes
and warm them to new life.
Allow it to grow and touch the ruined
homes and hearts and show us
what’s to mend. Stand in the light.
Be still. Become the light.


Date: 2016

By: Elizabeth Rimmer (1977- )

Sunday, 20 December 2020

Summer Solstice by Carrie Richards

This was when the whole world measured time
This is when the light would turn around
This is where the past would come undone
and the spinning earth will mark a new beginning
Let’s go back in time, to when it all began
To the breaking of new dawns
Where moments bright with fire, would light the chanting song
Where pagans worshipped sun, and danced among the trees
Wore strange masks of covered straw, and blessed cold ash with awe
Wreaths hung upon the door against all spirit’s, dire and when the winter’s grasp let go, the sun reversed the pyre
This was when the whole world measured time
This is when the light would turn around
So that spring arrives, and seeds will sprout and grow
Oh, radiant sun, stretch the day, shorten night
Return earth’s darkness into light This is where the light will turn around
And this was where the past has comes undone.


Date: 2016

By: Carrie Richards (19??- )

Wednesday, 9 December 2020

Sacred Beginnings by Allison Grayhurst

I love you under water
in the crescent cracks of rocks
where the roots of the rose begin,
inside the weather’s tailspin
where you colour my sleep
with your dance, and loving you
is worth more than I could ever offer.
I love you beside the coral reefs, even when
the serpent and shark are near. I love you
in the sandbox as we make our miracles
daily, pointing at every passing bird.
I love you with yesterday’s dinner
in the fridge, before and after the starlight falls.
I love you in each bubble we blow, in every fever we share,
and in our synchronized laughter, gracing
this mother and daughter sphere.


Date: 2016

By: Allison Grayhurst (19??- )