All Poetry

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Jonathan Aaron, Anxious Dreams

Jonathan Aaron, Two Poems

Susan Abraham, Two Poems

Sam Abrams, how to cut a throat

most people have absolutely the wrong idea of how to go about cutting a throat, the right way to do it on animals anatomically similar to humans such as dogs, sheep, veal calves and very young pigs—emphatically not on full-grown pigs 

Sam Abrams, The Laws


they have no gathering places
        for taking of council nor

Vito Hannibal Acconci, Two Poems

He said: “Straight from the horse’s mouth.”
He said that was straight from the horse’s mouth.
He said it straight from the horse’s mouth.

Diane Ackerman, Still Life

The bullet has almost entered the brain:
I can feel it sprint down the gunbarrel
rolling each bevel around like a hoop

Diane Ackerman, Two Poems

Rick Adang, Letter from Kitty Dukakis

Kim Addonizio, Pantoum: At Mount Hebron

This cemetery is no haven, 
old Jews waving at you 
offering Kaddish for a few dollars, 

Ai, Two Poems

A man once rode away on a yellow crane,
leaving only this empty pavilion.

Ai, Two Poems

Alan Ainsworth, Elizabeth Bishop's Novel

Stephen Ajay, Avalanche

I was on top, pressed into the scent
    you left at night on the shabby
bed. We were both on add and you said

Anna Akhmatova, Secrets of the Trade

Ibn Darraj al-Quastalli, The Lily

Sandra Alcosser, Two Poems

Claribel Alegria, Three Poems

In the sixty-three years
I have lived
some instants are electric:

Vincente Aleixandre, An Essay and Six Poems

Laurence Alexander, Three Poems

Birds of Riverside Park

As thrushes start together all at once.
Abrupt and charming when they sense the dusk
That was long coming now has come, we lie

Elizabeth Alexander, Two Poems

It wasn’t as deep as I expected,
your grave, next to the grandmother who died

Agha Shahid Ali, A Ghazal for Michael Palmer

Did we run out of things or just a name for you?
Above us the sun doubles its acclaim for you.

Negative sun or negative shade pulled from the ground ...

Agha Shahid Ali, A History of Paisley

Agha Shahid Ali, A Nostalgist's Map of America

Agha Shalid Ali, After the August Wedding in Lahore, Pakistan

Agha Shahid Ali, Snow on the Desert Full Text

“Each ray of sunshine is eight minutes old,”
Serge told me in New York one December
night. “So when one looks at the sky, one sees

Dante Alighieri, Inferno: Canto XXVIII

Dick Allen, Variation on a Theme by Ernest Hemingway

In a city where I once lived, for many years
an old man sat on his doorstep, in his hand
a brown facecloth, which he turned

John Allman, The Color of Neville Brand's Front Teeth

It begins in the back of the head,
gathering force like the strangler’s
mop in Slam sweeping across the floor.

A. Alvarez, The Bad Dream and the Photograph

Even in sleep your shadow watches, me 
Your whisper rustles through the sleeping room 
As though you moved in silks. Why keep on trying? 

Georgia Alwan, Children/Evolution

Theresa used to come over every day. I’d be standing by the kitchen window and hear her cowboy boots on the walk. Then she would stand outside the door—I knew—listening for a sound inside, scratching the door with a twig, or reaching up to the handle to pull on it, softly, so no one would hear. 

Ameen Alwan, Two Poems

You were twenty-eight this past week—all of you. One would think you'd be twenty-eight part by part-the way the sun rises over a landscape—instead of all at once.

Yehuda Amichai, Four Poems

Yehuda Amichai, Six Poems

A. R. Ammons, Everything

A. R. Ammons, Picking Up Equations

Not smart to be out under trees with the wind still this
high: billowing & breaking bring down stob ends

of last year's drought-wood that died way up in the branches,

A. R. Ammons et al., Pomework: An Exercise in Occasional Poetry

A. R. Ammons, Strip

wdn't it be silly to be serious, now:
I mean, the hardheads and the eggheads

are agreed that we are an absurd

A. R. Ammons, Three Poems

Hugh Kenner and James Laughlin, Mixpoem: A Feature

Arkawa and Madeline Gins, Untitled

Instantaneously and repeatedly, Blank serves a station for our senses, making possible an impression of continuance. Subject comes to be formed in much the same way. And so, Blank comes to be found thoroughly interspersed throughout Subject, forming an integral part of any act.

Olga Marx and Renata Scheliha, Passages from the Odes of Pindar

O transients on earth, what is man? 
what not? The shadow cast 
by a dream. But one whom the gods give 

Paul Anderson, Falling

I won't pretend I haven't ever cried; 
that would be rather foolish under the circumstances; 
I have been myself at times astonished 

Jack Anderson, Four Poems

Patrick Casey is sitting on the beach.
Patrick Casey is surrounded by sunshine.
Patrick Casey has a sunny disposition.

Nathalie Anderson, Four Poems

Happy baby. Bobbing. Strong arm. Slap. Hard 
water. Bottle-green swells smack, splatter. Chuck 
the chin. Bluster. Rip-roaring rumpus. Scutched. 

Jack Anderson, Three Poems

Claes Andersson, Two Poems

In this country we manufacture cages
We construct them just as you wish
made-to-order, a cage for each occasion

Bruce Andrews, from Confidence Trick

Audible — About heart is more colloquial, that not your line!, keep your hearts in line, to say & less done, rave on, to do & more, distinctively all drums

Tom Andrews, Cinéma Vérité: A Map Is Not a Territory

Blackout-in the theater as well as on screen. From a distance
we hear Steve Reich's "Music for 18 Musicians." It almost
sounds like a train approaching. Now we hear voices: by turns

Bruce Andrews, Could Darwin Instruct Those Turtles?

Could Darwin instruct those turtles? Pixilated pin-dick tax
taste—comforting mannikins
atmosphere, he also enjoys an occasional highball: wanna see my

Bruce Andrews, Getting a Job, American 1970

veteran postage and were honorable if yes based on where do you wish along dotted cut post office box or print a campaign badge or service medal 5000-C through July i, 1955 ex-service daughter who died in civil service appointment to use in item 

B. A. St. Andrews, On Witnessing Open-Heart Surgery

Perched on this metal tripod
silent as an uninspired sibyl

I watch a living body (male,
white, 56) draped in skyblue

Bruce Andrews, Poem Full Text


Bananas are an example.

Nin Andrews, Poets on Poets

—But who reads that shit? About as true to life as a
   velvet grape.
—I think he judges poetry with his dick. And poets, too.

Nin Andrews, Red Blossoms

Nin Andrews, The Artichoke

Nin Andrews, The Book of Lies

B. A. St. Andrews, Topography: The Brain Scan

Nin Andrews, Two Poems

Bathing, Miss Del Greco informed us in health class,
is very important, especially once you become a teenager.

David Antin, West

The soldiers were in the habit of saying that a dying

soldier was “going west.” Are you going west on your

vacation? We turned west at Allentown and drove west-

Guillaume Apollinaire, Mirabeau Bridge

Under the Mirabeau Bridge there flows the Seine
              Must I recall
         Our loves recall how then

Philip Appleman, A Priest Forever

The first time?
So long ago—that brown-eyed boy…
How can I say thi s, your Reverences,

Philip Appleman, Leaving Things Unfinished

Cathy Arden, The Missionary

It’s not
because I am a land

Simon Armitage, Four Poems

Because of your own natural sense of death,
death's stench in the fur, in the follicles, sweat glands,
death in the roots of the teeth, it's right

Elizabeth Arnold, Effacement

Craig Arnold, Seven Poems

Flames and money with colors. Good thick paper
rubbing between the fingertips like oil.

Craig Arnold, Two Poems

Sparrow who drags a footlong crust of bread behind him
Sparrow whose head is pecked bald from so many quarrels

Hans Arp, The Swallow's Testicle

Sarah Arvio, Hello Goodbye

Sarah Arvio, Murder

"Oh, murder!" she was heard to mutter, or
"Mary mother of god!" You see how close
these utterances come? Please kiss me, Mom.

Sarah Arvio, Three Poems

"Oh, how we love the glow of holy gold!"
They curled, cavorting in the evening sun .
"Oh, but centuries have passed since the rage

Sarah Arvio, Visits from the Seventh

I said something nonsensical to them
and they mocked back, "but we're your one design,"
or "you're our one design"—which was it?

John Ash, Four Poems

As if encarmined tulips opened
with a sudden pop like that of a toy pistol
morning surprises you again,

John Ash, Scenes From Schumann

As in an old memoir, the rhododendrons were over.
Hunger persisted, and the light was weak—
the light of music and books, the light paintings cast

John Ash, The Monuments

Each year the monuments grew larger.
The citizens demanded this.
As their lives got worse they wanted

John Ash, Three Poems

Only the dead don’t know
what heaven’s like. For the rest
extrapolation is possible.

John Ash, Two Poems

John Ashbery, from Flow Chart Full Text

The madhouse statuary seemed to dispel the pre-life 
      we gave it.

John Ashbery, Four Poems

For all I know I was meant to be one of those marchers
into a microtonal near-future whose pile has worn away—

John Ashbery, Obsidian House Full Text

as was proven 
when they entered the house 

John Ashbery, Rain Moving In Full Text

The blackboard is erased in the attic 
And the wind turns up the light of the stars, 
Sinewy now. Someone will find out, someone will know. 

John Ashbery, Six Poems

Better homes and gardens for many
but for the rest, we are not so sure.

John Ashbery, The New Spirit

I thought that if I could put it all down, that would be one way. And next the thought came to me that to leave all out, would be another, and truer, way.

clean-washed sea

John Ashbery, Three Poems Full Text

Silly girls your heads full of boys
There is a last sample of talk on the outer side
Your stand at last lifts to dumb evening

John Ashbery, Two Poems Full Text

You are my most favorite artist. Though I know 
very little about your work. Some of your followers I know: 

John Ashbery, Two Poems Full Text

Then I reached the field and I thought 
this is not a joke not a book 

John Ashbery, Two Poems Full Text

My sister and I don’t seem to get along too well anymore.  
She always has to have everything new in her house. Cherished ideals  
don’t suit her teal, rust and eggshell color scheme.  

John Ashbery, Two Poems Full Text

The deep water in the travel poster finds me
In the change as I was about to back away

John Ashbery, Two Poems Full Text

The immense hope, and forbearance 
Trailing out of night, to sidewalks of the day 
Like air breathed into a paper city, exhaled 

John Ashbery, Two Poems Full Text

Impatient as we were for all of them to join us, 
The land had not yet risen into view: gulls had swept the gray steel towers away 
So that it profited less to go searching, away over the humming earth 

John Ashbery, … by an Earthquake Full Text

A hears by chance a familiar name, and the name solves a 
      riddle of the past. 

B, in love with A, receives an unsigned letter in which the 

Jennifer Ashton, Two Poems

Susan Astor, Two Poems

Margaret Atwood, Frogless Full Text

The sore trees cast their leaves
too early. Each twig pinching

Amittai F. Aviram, Two Poems

I will go rent a U-Haul, and move to Hackensack,
And a cheap condo buy there, the driveway freshly tarred,
Hard by the Jersey turnpike, a swingset in the back,

Neil Azevedo, Four Poems

I knew a girl who also had a ghost
living in her mouth-what we called dumb

and meant the sound of all her clicking rings,

Neil Azevedo, Three Poems

Claude, be still, light
is what you're seeing now:
the moon contained in dusk,

Paulé Bártón, Three Poems

Ingeborg Bachmann, Ten Poems

Ingeborg Bachmann, Two Poems

Massimo Bacigalupo, Night Flight

Our field is the sky,
tilled by the sweat of motors,
in the face of night,

Ansie Baird, Genealogy

Ansie Baird, Three Poems

 My mother shrugged off life
Three thousand miles from Paris,
City of her birth. It takes

Ansie Baird, Two Poems


Dawn was their greeting time.

David Baker, Forced Bloom

Such pleasure one needs to make for oneself—.
She has snipped the paltry forsythia
to force the bloom, has cut each stem on the

David Baker, Four Poems

my neighbors 
say, when what they mean 

David Baker, Melancholy Man

David Baker, Two Poems

Christopher Bakken, Coleridge in Valletta

Christopher Bakken, Three Poems

Lemnos, you harbor me, moon-mountained
   and reticent, motionless in flux.
Dusk festers too long in the distance,

Christopher Bakken, Three Poems

Though the rest of us remains closed, tired,
we go on hoping for what we know,
the essence of it enclosed in a dream—

Tom McKinley Ball, News from the Interior

In the midst of winter, where moonlight carves
stillness into the shape of hills, there is
a cabin feeding smoke to the low-hanging sky,

Jesse Ball, Six Poems

And when you are finally caught and questioned, it is discovered, sadly, that you know nothing of use. Your captors exchange glances, nod. You are released in the freedom of some afternoon,

Mary Jo Bang, Allegory Full Text

Let us console you. 
Music’s the answer. 

Mary Jo Bang, Five Poems

Had she not lain on that bed with a boy
All those years ago, where would they be, she wondered.

Mary Jo Bang, Four Poems

Mary Jo Bang, Three Poems

From where she sat she could see
a sundial, but she couldn't read it.
Time was a brush fire burning somewheres,

Mary Jo Bang, Two Poems

It's time for the feasting that follows the four men it took
to carry the dead monster's head.
Just look at the clock—

Mary Jo Bang, Two Poems

“The quick brown fox jumps
Over the lazy dog”: it was a little bedtime story

Stanislaw Baranczak, Two Poems

What is a verse not to be thought 
in the oval rows of the stadium, where 

Joan Baranow, Grand Canyon

David Barber, Durer's Rhinoceros

George Barker, Epithalamium

Mary Barnard, Song for the Northern Quarter

The sun is a drum
                 the moon is a cymbal 
The flow of time is caught in a cup.

Julian Barnes, Maria Kodama

Dick Barnes, On a Photograph Given Me by My Grandmother

Willis Barnstone, Two Poems

The moon is sick. I fear she'll die
from lack of love, from poverty
and homelessness, lost in the sky,

Rick Barot, Passagework

What they had for ideals
must persist in the taut set
of that rearing horse's head,

Rick Barot, Phantasmal Cities

Flecked on a layer of mortar on the pillbox lid,
the tiles pieced together by some kindred myopic
have caught this much of Tuscany: hills worn down

Tina Barr, Twelve Dancing Princesses

Jack Barrack, Two Poems

The suddenly bought land
Was stilled in its habits. Indians
Too light-fingered for events

Susan Bartels, All My Orifices Are Too Small

You laugh when I tell you, but it is truth.
Countless physicians have affirmed it, according
to their various specialties. The oral surgeon,

Rick Bass, Gold Hill, The Yaak, June 1998

We hiked up a canyon in the cold summer rain.
It was late in the day and on the mountain
across the canyon there was a section of

Claire Bateman, Ectoplasm

For the base I prefer a paste of unscented soap, egg white, & glue or gelatin, often peroxide
never, as do some of my competitors, chewed muslin strips or (loathsome!) bits of animal tissue!
Though receiving but five dollars each night at the lyceum (a dollar at home),

Claire Bateman, Two Poems

Charles Baudelaire, Five Poems

I am like the king of a rainy kingdom,
rich but weak, young yet very old, 

Charles Baudelaire, Nineteen Poems (Richard Howard, trans.)

Judith Baumel, Fibonacci

Judith Baumel, Proper Distance and Proper Time

Two events have a spacelike separation.
Show that a frame can be found in which
the two events occur at the same time.

Judith Baumel, Two Poems

Some are drunk. Some are mumbling.
Many are solitary, each in his way fixed.
They are all happy over their very good number,

Bruce Bawer, ASPCA

Bruce Bawer, Sixty-fifth Street Poems

Love, here we stand at the beginning
of our life together, and I find myself
thinking of a hot summer night

Charles Baxter, Four Poems

You could see windstorms and a piece of floating string
making their way to the school
for hours—you could watch the sun,

Daniel J. Beachy-Quick, Two Poems

I know you, smaller than Circumference
Of Bone—smaller than Orbit—than Silver

Flask in Pocket—more delicate than Mints

Bruce Beasley, Eve, Learning to Speak

Katherine Beasley, The Plea Bargain

They gave me a choice I didn't want: the fate
of a twenty-three-year-old man named
   Frank Spencer Robertson,

Uli Becker, The God-like Flash

Priscilla Becker, Three Poems

Describe a scene from your daily life.

The sky has come down around us like a shroud.

Use plain language.

Priscilla Becker, Three Poems

Six years have gone since I have been loved
by you. All appearances have been more or less
phantom. There is a boy, now, applying for your job.

Priscilla Becker, Two Poems

I forgot to tell you my husband
died. He was in Spain and something
strange happened with alcohol or water. He loved them

Georgi Belev, The Forest Comes Down at Night

Marvin Bell, Felt But Not Touched — Seattle

That light behind the Olympics at supper hour—
it takes a sky of clouds from here to there
to spot the sun, seam and snow just right.

Jason Bell, The Invisible Child

Joe David Bellamy, 17-Year Cicadas

In 1936 it was a hot spring in
We were in English class and the

Joe David Bellamy, A Talking Dog Is No Circus

My Dalmation yearns to speak to me this morning.
She is more-than-elegant in her sleek musculature—
demure, nubile, oddly cat-like before breakfast.

Nathaniel Bellows, Three Poems

I envy the cellist with the sculpted barrel
between her knees.
I envy the violinist, the trainer of a mahogany bird

Sharona Ben-Tov, Carillon for Cambridge Women

There is a cataract of blood over the dawn;
I know by watching
from the river’s fringes of wild grass

S. Ben-Tov, Clouds Over Jerusalem, in Winter

As if they were trying to build on a different thought
the clouds accumulate between sun and the city,
so the beams go wide and break into sheaves of light.

S. Ben-Tov, Pauses in Indian Flute Music

Breath through the flute like light constrained
in a prism, rays, and is made to weave
a tense web trembling as the notes blow over a

S. Ben-Tov, The Foucault Pendulum at Hanover

The wind and the rain, the trees swung like a bell
all across Massachusetts in the fall,
and the torn fog steaming from the yellow mountains,

Molly Bendall, Spring Sale at Bendel's

Molly Bendall, Stunted Gardens

Dear Emile, I'm tolerating the tribute
of these flowers in the garden you once planted—
their modulating wits, the conspiratorial

Molly Bendall, The Book of Sharp Silhouettes

Gothic flowers bedded themselves
in the edges of this night, the night
when a bullet pierced her rib precisely,

Molly Bendall, Two Poems

At the Crux

     Grieving takes its lyric turns,
            sometimes en pointe.

Michael Benedikt, Of Granny Smith's Apples

Michael Benedikt, Orders From Beyond

(1) I don't know about your boss, but my particular employer is certainly exacting. For example: Not too long ago the orders came down from above: no more of this sloppy filing, no more of these simpleminded rectangles and neat but inappropriate manila folders.

Michael Benedikt, Professor Albert Einstein

The idea of being tried by "A Jury Of One's Peers,"
Which, as we all know, is the pillar & pride of our American
   system of jurisprudence, among others.

Michael Benedikt, Right in the Middle of Everything

You, who live in this world, & claim to understand about everything about life—lyricizing in your written words about how
Love Is At The Heart of Things
(With its lovers coming & going)

Michael Benedikt, St. Rafael's Lament

Michael Benedikt, The Badminton at Great Barrington

ou never get to play it, the rackets
Are always missing or else the net’s dissolved
During the winter, and there are mole holes

Michael Benedikt, The Chest of Energy

The energy chest 
One keeps dipping in

Michael Benedikt, The Criminal Animal

Human mothers are right to take such exceptional care of their babies; after all, even from birth, there is no animal which is quite like man. Yes, even as a child, Man differs from the babies of other species. 

Michael Benedikt, The Way Things Settle

There will always be a distance  
Even when things are pressing  
Against one another, so hard 

Michael Benedikt, Two Poems

In the rain, get your hands off my trickling face!
A damp rug
               my chilled hands

Christopher Benfey, Expecting

You hoarded oyster shells through the R months;
they jut from the backyard garden like unwashed ears
of earth, and listen to your footsteps growing heavier.

Christopher Benfey, Two Poems

Christopher Benfey, Two Poems

I hold my brother’s daughter in my lap
and clip her fingernails. She sits expectant
and will not be distracted from the unfolding

Robert Bensen, Blue Room

So hot the shore we drove through four states
to reach stays dazed a skipping-stone’s throw 
beyond the window, though the tide creeps out,

Robert Bensen, Caprice

From tiny up, a grand jeté to a slow freight
was basic movement, or losing a footrace allegro
to neighborhood punks. And to fast-talk my way

Robert Bensen, The Truth about Everything

Steve Benson, Two Poems

B. Singer Bentley, Honesty

William Benton, Two Poems

Young, nondescript,
well, she's a little fat,
the life and fall of thick '

William Benton, Two Poems

I'm the one who has imprisoned the rain dragon.

You know the story? About the dark-eyed girl who seduces
the holy man and ends the long drought.

Stephen Berg, A Natural Death

Stephen Berg, The Dead's Locale

Shelley A. Berger, Archaeology of a Photo. 1939. Baranowicz. The Ghost

David Bergman, A Hard Rain in Hartford

David Bergman, Three Poems

David Bergman, Two Poems

David Bergman, Two Poems

Judith Berke, Playground

Judith Berke, Two Poems

Bill Berkson, Three Poems

Bill Berkson, Two Poems

Bands of distracted emotions snap getting
wider as daytime colors sink and roll on their
sides. White powders smashed tight into

Bill Berkson, Two Poems

It’s a socket—I don’t know how, 
but you soon learn to count millions into that province; 
they roar and change, and that's all, 

Spring Melody Berman, Two Poems

April Bernard, Boyacá is the land of liberty

Take that hand away, the hand
washing like small warm stones along my neck

There’s a donkey standing in the doorway,

April Bernard, The Way We Live Now

The difficulties, in passion,
are not news: the knot at the throat,
the lipstick that smears, the skirt

April Bernard, Two Poems

Artis Bernard, Water

Alan Bernheimer, Two Poems

No scenery in the scenery
Attraction of fact
Puts construction on things

Charles Bernstein, Four Poems

Else everyone leaving leave to say
What sway would, not that urnal
Bishops, jarred as lurid tenses

Ted Berrigan, from The Sonnets

Summer so histrionic, marvelous dirty days
is not genuine      it shines forth from the faces
littered with soup, cigarette butts, the heavy

Ted Berrigan, Things To Do In Providence

                            Take valium            Sleep 
                                       Dream & 

Ted Berrigan, Three Poems

It’s very interesting 
Weighing 500 lbs 
You might even say, “it’s great!”

Ted Berrigan, Three Sonnets for Tom Clark

In The Early Morning Rain
To my family & friends          “Hello”
And money. With something inside us we float up

Ted Berrigan, Two Poems

(2) photos of Anne
                        80 years old
                                          lovely, as always

Ted Berrigan, Two Poems

and I am lost in the ringing elevator 
sweeping me to the top 
there there were pine needles 

Michael Berryhill, Three Poems

Through the blown clouds and the plate glass,
sunlight slides across the chrome fountains.
The Muzak drones like some huge machine

James Bertolino, Around the Blue Spruce

There will never again
be this driveway
of fresh snow, one pair

James Bertolino, Mom & Sally

Attilio Bertolucci, Three Poems

Today a cold wind travels the earth,
not arid, parching as later it will be,
dragging leaves from branches with a sound

Muin Beseisu, Three Poems

on the windowpanes 
on the porcupine’s skin 
on the curtains 

Carin Besser, Two Poems

Morning came, in buckles and lace,
asking to be held. The birds began
with sultry murmurs, their notes soon rising like sirens.

Jill Bialosky, The Boy Beheld His Mother's Past

The ivory wedding hat came tumbling down—
how long had it been stored away, untouched
like desire repressed and bound—

Mark Bibbins, Four Poems

Mark Bibbins, Horoscopes without Telescopes Full Text

It could feel good to stare at numbers 
all day, another job but I can’t name any; 

Mark Bibbins, Six Poems

He cakes night as a kind of medicine,
swallowing it with a buck and shiver.
Sometimes a drowning muse come from within

Frank Bidart, Confessional

        Is she dead?

 Yes, she is dead.

             Did you forgive her?

Frank Bidart, The Return

Frank Bidart, The War of Vaslav Nijinsky

Still gripped by the illusion of an horizon;
overcome with the finality of a broken tooth;
suspecting that habits are the only salvation,

Frank Bidart, Three Poems

To all those driven berserk or humanized by love
this is offered, for I need help
deciphering my dream.

Elizabeth Bishop, Notebooks

Bill Bissett, Poem


Star Black, Cuisine

The vegan gourmet will have his way. Lamb chops
will soon be relegated to quaint cabins in the olden days.
The ballooning business of burgers, too, will change,

Star Black, Twilit Full Text

Moving away from rattled towns,
gaining, as a bird in a dishwasher,

Sophie Cabot Black, Two Poems

Julien Blaine, Three Poems

It was made of pulp and flesh 
It was fruit                        pulp 
It was clayish                    flesh

Diann Blakely, The Dolls

Those lolling china heads and rag-stuffed arms
will never love us in return, said Rilke,
whose mother dressed him like a girl, whose charms

Robin Blaser, The Faerie Queene

Okay         A nightingale 
does sing 
                 outside this window 

Randy Blasing, Hymn to the Sun

Randy Blasing, Some Legs

A toe dances under my nose         My eye
Takes it from there, moving on up peekaboo style
Over ankles and calves past kneecaps to thighs—

Sally W. Bliumis, In the Women's Locker Room

Over the tops of the lockers,
I hear a woman

Maureen Bloomfield, Two Poems

Maureen Bloomfield, Two Poems

Lavina Blossom, After the Harlequin

It is called Trent or Noel
for the most beautiful girl
turning woman on the continent.

Laurel Blossom, Baboon Liver Transplant Poem

Lavinia Blossom, Mr. Berg Waves to the Sky

He raised his hand above his head.
His hair was a surface of gray,
his hand a semaphore.

Laurel Blossom, Plea to a Potential Lover

Etta Blum, For Copland’s Vitebsk

He believes, he believes, the gray-eyed one 
who puts your shards together. 
(Cleft saucers are mended in Vitebsk.) 

Michael Blumenthal, Falling Asleep at the Erotic Mozi

Because I want to watch them do what I would like to do
if I were free, and because it is late and I am tired
and out for what I say is my nightly walk, I stop

Robert Bly, Choral Stanza

For peace and peace and peace the prayers ascend

From tongues in darkness sung to tongues in light

In death

Robert Bly, Five American Poems

If we are truly free and live in a free country,
When shall I be without this heaviness of mind?
When shall I have peace? Peace this way and peace that way?

Robert Bly, Five Prose Poems

When I wake, the sheep are eating apple peels just outside the screen, the trees are heavy, soaked, and hushed, the sun just rising. All seems calm, and yet somewhere inside I am not calm. We live in wooden buildings made of two by fours, making the landscape nervous for a hundred miles. 

Robert Bly, Meditation on Olai and Pete Bly

The long waves boom in the naked Norwegian caves, 
Men with gray hair come, men 
Like Polynesians, their long hair is like bark falling from a waterfall, 

Robert Bly, The Fire of Despair Has Been Our Saviour

Today, autumn.
Heaven’s roots are still.
O holy trees, rejoicing ruin of leaves,

Robert Bly, The Man Whom the Sea Kept Awake

I’ve heard the sea upon the troubled rocks
Waste this past night, with dreams more troubled still,
And where the images that you and I

Robert Bly, The Sorb Is The Tree of Thor

Out of the jetty slip the dark bark rides, 
As I more leave, each day, the man-leafed tree, 
Hearing the Norse tell how they sail the sea. 

Robert Bly, Two Choral Stanzas

The dove returns; it found no resting place;
It was in flight all night above the shaken seas;

Robert Bly, Two Poems

Whenever Jesus appears at the murky well,
I am there with my five hundred husbands.
It takes Jesus all day to mention their names.

Robert Bly, Two Poems

What comes out of the harp? Musk!
And there is a dance no hands or feet dance.
No fingers play it, no ears hear it,

Robert Bly, Two Poems

Bracelets, jade, rubies, teak, silver chain armlets,
Topaz, smoking sapphire, diamond tortoises of gold, 
Columbus glimpsed them behind the green hills before he died;

Robert Bly, Two Poems

It’s a good idea to figure what to do with parents. 
One man I knew, after caring for them for years, 

Murray Bodo, After the Earthquakes

Where the stone foaress shoulders the leaning city,
where vacant windows front cracked rooftiles, dislodged

Murray Bodo, St. Francis and the Damietta Prostitute

He comes to Egypt with the Crusaders. Of all the men
at the inn I'm drawn to him. Is it his eyes?
I ask with mine. He smiles and nods consent.

Don Bogen, A Postcard from St. Petersburg

Don Bogen, Among Appliances

Don Bogen, Thoroughbreds

Don Bogen, Two Poems

Don Bogen, Two Poems

George Bogin, Calamine Lotion

On May 11 th, 194 3, my father, terminal,
hugged me at home in a New York blackout
and kissed me in his bathrobe goodbye forever

George Bogin, The Haircut

A woman came down the hill from her farm
with her two little children
to have her neighbor cut

Phil Boiarski, Blood Soup

She called the white ducks with a soft
Clucking of her tongue and they came to
Her busy hands for the hard corn she shelled.

Phil Boiarski, Dziadek

Phil Boiarski, The Hilarious Beating

He said he was going to make this the worst beating
I had ever had, while pulling the split strop out
From its hiding place on the top shelf of the

Eavan Boland, Instructions

Eavan Boland, Making Money

They made money—
                                maybe not the way
you think it should be done

Eavan Boland, Two Poems

Thomas Bolt, 1971 Pontiac LeMans

Auto in sunlight: every trace of gloss
Is dulled a rusting green.
Even the fenders are a dirty chrome

Thomas Bolt, Two Poems

After a dingy rain I walked out
Through a world stripped bare of narrative,

A truce while the wet surfaces

Bruce Bond, Oval

How faceless their pathos, the ovals
of these heads, huge, smooth, hermetic
as eggs, and solemn, especially the man's

Bruce Bond, Pomegranate

You could be turning it in your fingers like a planet.
A knife would do, if you're good with knives,
bracing the hard fruit in your slender hand;

Bruce Bond, Three Poems

No stranger to the faith of eyes
asleep under the surgeon's lancet,
to time gambled with every try

Bruce Bond, Two Poems

Who's to say where the man ends,
the world begins; what it is
that wakes him in a visible sweat,

Bruce Bond, Two Poems

Yves Bonnefoy, The Clouds

Doubly silent the afternoon
By virtue of empty summer, and of a flame
Overflowing, is it from this vase

Yves Bonnefoy, The Lure of the Threshold

Knock forever.

In the lure of the threshold.

Yves Bonnefoy, Two Poems

Betsy Bonner, Three Poems

Philip Booth, Elegy For a Diver

Philip Booth, Night Notes on an Old Dream

Like a seal 
in broken sleep, 
aware of how

Philip Booth, Seadog and Seal

Philip Booth, The Husband as Hero

I’m drunk. My head holds up 
the soft vibrations of the room. 
Dusk. My daughter jogs her answer 

Shannon Borg, At Sea

The willow is bare and the sky is full of willow.
Weeping into gutters, the sound of tires in rain
flows down and rises up to open windows

Shannon Borg, Reclining Woman with Green Stockings

He waited for her the last time
in the Cafe Eichberger, at their table:
walls the color of chocolate, tiles worn

Shannon Borg, Two Poems

On her dress she wears her body. —Blaise Cendras 

Shannon Borg, Walking London with Charlotte Mew

Concrete forest, puddled houses; clouds
sweep across the sky—a thunderhead
settles in. Think how anger seethes

Jorge Luis Borges, Five Poems

Michael Borich, The Girl

Marianne Boruch, Honest-to-God Color, God Said, for Artists Full Text

Honest-to-god color, god said, for artists. 
But first, graveyards, to grind the human femur 

David Bottoms, Andalusia Visit

David Bottoms, Hard Easter, Northwest Montana

David Bottoms, Last Nickel Ranch: Plains, Montana

In the living room of the trailer, the father of the woman
I love calls the family into a huddle.
Dinner is over, the charcoal is ash on the grill.

David Bottoms, The Tent Astronomer

David Bottoms, Three Poems

Out of some toasty leaf-burrow she wallows into the cold,
following what calls her across
the icy crust of creek and up the ridge to my yard,

David Bottoms, Two Poems

Joseph Bottone, Sky Light

I am in a temple or maybe it’s a sweltering 
summer camp lodge type, of a room.

        Have too many cats...

Edgar Bowers, A Variation on “O never say that I was false at heart”

The night has made the apple tree a scent,
A motion in my ear, as if delight
Ever so softly trembled in decline.

Edgar Bowers, Adam's Song to Heaven

   O depth sufficient to desire, 
Ghostly abyss wherein perfection hides, 
   Purest effect and cause, you are 

Patrick Bowles, The Visitors

Patrick Bowles, Two Sonnets

She never knew the brittle rose would wake
    The far-off dormant egypt of its day
That she entombed; spring gave, autumn would take

Catherine Bowman, Two Poems

Well, he can sell the whole dog, the long, the short
with all its parts, nothing missing, sliced and chunked.
The bole, the bulk, the stem, the stalk, the hulk.

Catherine Bowman, Two Poems

Antlers butting against the full moon.
Bellies lolling on my belly.

Creamy chestnut crania in convex cones.

Arthur Boyars, Initial

Passing out of a great city 
A flower in confusion, 
I, the speaker, and you, the listener;

Arthur Boyars, Poem

Arthur Boyars, Second Canto

There was a bed prepared and avoided
Smoke faces
Too great a distraction

Jay Boyer, Unnatural Acts and Menagerie

It's gone about far enough,
your being kind to animals.
I've had a belly full.

Peg Boyers, At the Guggenheim Museum, Venice

I am straddling Marini’s horse
using the horseman’s cock as my handle

Gabriel Boyers, Like Children

I tire as I carve the passage
Til the wind peeks out from underneath.
Yes, I guess this is clean now.

Peg Boyers, Open Letter to Alberto Moravia

It's true: I am a coward. The other night,
at dinner, I neglected to tell you how much
I detest your latest novel. Had you asked me,

Peg Boyers, Two Poems

Francis Boylan, The Tramp

How easily we say he’s down 
And out or itinerant, that tramp 
Rummaging the afternoon, 

Mark Boyle, Three Poems Full Text

& with a blunt cafeteria table knife 
mr macadam clerical officer bludgeons 
the half poached egg that is his 

George Bradley, A Few of Her Secrets

George Bradley, Advisory Full Text

September’s lovely in New York, the sky 
Returned to baby blue, the breeze now mild 

George Bradley, August in the Apple Orchard Full Text

It seems someone else was interested in order, too—
The squat trees edging away down the slope
In wavy lines like rivulets—but wasn’t very good at it.

George Bradley, Caskets in the Fayoum

Everybody has a point of view,
         a public expression when
                all is said and done,

George Bradley, In Bed with a River

George Bradley, Nabu-Kudurri-Usur and the Word

Nothing of the son occurred, of course,
not the evil dreams, not the dementia,
neither bovine diet nor bestial appearance,

George Bradley, Opus

They cut off hands and composed cantatas;
They gutted their neighbors like fish and released
The shape of spirits from bonds of ebony;

George Bradley, The 4th of July, and

The sidewalks are wobbling in the god-awful heat.
        Ninety-eight in the shade,
Where there is shade, as New York lies locked under
        Layers of high pressure

George Bradley, The Future of the Past

George Bradley, Two Poems

There are worlds, unwieldy, dreadful,
Difficult to grasp, just pick one up
And it grasps you, its grip of iron;

George Bradley, Two Poems

Like I get this phone call from Shirley MacLaine,
it's the middle of the night, right,
she's all confused about time,

George Bradley, Two Poems

George Bradley, Two Poems

George Bradley, Two Poems

Larry Bradley, V

Eventually she stayed
with the overflown artery of Ouse
fingering pebbles one at a time two

Joe Brainard, The Outer Banks

Richard Brautigan, The San Francisco Weather Report

Kate Ellen Braverman, Three Poems

I teach fourth grade
batik and weave plant hangers
with seashells bound in the yarns,

Laurence Breiner, Sonettina: At the Murano Glassworks

You see a bright ship
with a flourish of little banners
formed in one single gesture

David Breskin, Broken Country Scramble

The river's applause fades 'round the ridge
like a candled freedom snuffed by a junta:

wounded echo. Crumbly shale of ocean

David Breskin, Two Poems

AndrÈ Breton, The Verb To Be Full Text

I know the general outline of despair. Despair has no wings,

Breyten Breytenbach, Two Poems

Many things will still change,
other flags fib and sing,
different ideologies may march—

Robert Bringhurst, Sunday Morning

Moonset at sunrise, the mind
dividing between them. The teeth
of the young sun sink through the breast of the cloud.

Donald Britton, Two Poems

Edwin Brock, A Formula for Success

If you put one leg
ahead of your body
balance on it and swing

Edwin Brock, Prototypes


King George the Fifth 
looked like my grandfather 
and felt as close

Geoffrey Brock, Telephone

Loaf of bread or sheep's
head, rubber nubbed
for traction on flatnesses

Lucie Brock-Broido, And Wylde for to Hold

Lucie Brock-Broido, How Can It Be I Am No Longer I

Winter was the ravaging in the scarified
Ghost garden, a freak of letters crossing down a rare

Path bleak with poplars. The yew were a crewel

Lucie Brock-Broido, Periodic Table of Ethereal Elements

I was not ready for your form to be cold
Ever. Even in life

You did not inhabit, necessarily, a form,

Lucie Brock-Broido, Two Poems

Jim Brodey, Go to Sleep

Jim Brodey, Sky a la Mode

Lie facedown in the pulsating mantra:
                                         dried flowers bathed in sunshine
Of slowly submerging monograms

Jim Brodey, Two Poems

Harold Brodkey, Jewlove

I’ll compare Jew-love to Roman light,
stone palazzi in travellers’ perspectives
obelisks and domes,

Harold Brodkey, On First Being Published

The scenes that were on the inside of his ribs,
when he willed them outward, they appeared,
tattooed, in front, behind, strips of pictures

Harold Brodkey, To Frank O’Hara

The real is a wilderness
that ambitions calls a garden.

Joseph Brodsky, Gorbunov and Gorchakov

“Well, what’d you dream of this time, Gorbunov?”
“Oh, mushrooms, mostly.” “Mushrooms! What the hell!
Again?” “Again.” “You really make me laugh.”

Joseph Brodsky, Lagoon

Joseph Brodsky, To Urania

Everything has its limit, including sorrow
A windowpane stalls a stare; nor does a grill abandon
a leaf. One may rattle the keys, gurgling down a swallow.

Patricia Brody, Dangerous to Know, Even After Death

Steve Bronson, Two Poems

Fillmore alleyway window frame fat woman,
drunken, at kitchen greasy oil-clothed table
half gallon carton of milk and a fifth. Dark,

Steve Brooks, the breakfast show

Joel Brouwer, The Fork

Joel Brouwer, Two Poems

Joel Brouwer, Two Poems

The maestro, in his Paris hotel, clicks
the television on. A girl with a purple mohawk
chops at the Wall with a hatchet, blasting

George Mackay Brown, The Sailor, The Old Woman, and The Girl

“Have you any cure,” cried the young sailor
Pulling against the tide,
“Have you any herb or spell to help

George Mackay Brown, Two Poems

“Red as butchered beasts
 Miracle-mongers end;
 Sang the first wound

Douglas Browne, Two Poems

Alan Brownjohn, A Difficulty

Moving across the light, on agitated hips,
She hurries away breadcrusts and grapestones 
And glances in mid-talk, as if from fear,

Michael Brownstein, Big City

As I walk down NYC I wonder into the ground
Glee a short road across my face
To a sparrow observing from the cool agenda

Michael Brownstein, Florence Was Fine in the Summertime

On this day, anno 1966
The thin Scandinavian girl whose fine-nosed
                      white collie sniffs along the shaded walk.

Michael Brownstein, Life

Michael Brownstein, United at First

United at first
ham and cheese fall apart and slip 
             through my trembling hands

Joseph Bruchac, Three Poems

Sharon Bryan, Ghazal: The Nightingale

Some men say I've forgotten why I sing,
as if I were a happy, careless thing.

But just my speechless body stayed behind—

Carl Buchanan, Six Victims

Alexandra Budny, Two Poems

Aaron Bulman, The Revision

I still liked anyothertime,
anyotherplace. which means most
of my life, but it was now,

Jessica Grant Bundschuh, The Bees' Passage

I read about their hive in a beekeeping book,
the 1916 fire near a lumber pile where
they fanned their wings furiously,

Basil Bunting, Two Poems

A thrush in the syringa sings.
“Hunger ruffles my wings, fear,
lust familiar things.

Michael Burkard, A Series of Judgments

Snow is irrational
and the rare song above the snow insane.

Every tree is a personality:

Michael Burkard, Before the Dark

Michael Burkard, But Beautiful

But beautiful is the dog lost,
once headed east, then later

in the dark south. But
beautiful is the cold


Derick Burleson, Two Poems

Refugees flee their homes. Exiles
move back in, thirty-year echoes
of mortar shells rattling windows.

Michael Burns, Joy's Grape

A naked woman rides a naked man
and vamps, and moans, and both pretend to mount
the summit of desire, although in these

Michael Burns, Two Poems

Michael Burns, Two Poems

Somebody is always expecting you home.
Somebody's saying you've been gone too long
and stayed too late, and no good can come of it.

Michael Burns, Two Poems

John Burnside, Six Poems

E. G. Burrows, Icon

Your eyes show peace, discord
is foreign to your lips;
most necessary motion

Christopher Bursk, Two Poems

John Burt, Four Sapphics

Stephen Burt, Morningside Park

Without fear or fault, the green
Expanse of it drops off at acute
Angles, sudden and inconveniently,

John Burt, Three Poems

Impatient at the ferry slip, he hoped
He'd long be out of Beaufort when they heard
The fool he'd been, the fools he'd made of them,

William Burtis, Acapulco Rubric

At one time, under this same title,
I told the whole story of the kidnapped girl
and her Mexican tortures.

Elena Karina Byrne, Sanctuary of Hunger

She cannot get it to her mouth fast enough. She cannot
   stop herself.
What rush correspondence of blood replenishes dangerous

Elena Karina Byrne, Two Poems

Scott Cairns, Interval with Erato

Scott Cairns, Necropolitan

Scott Cairns, Three Poems

—like Venice, save
that the canals are scarlet, and decay
impossible, neither are the boats

Scott Cairns, Three Poems

Scott Cairns, Two Poems

The way had become unbearably slow, progress
imperceptible. Even his hunger had become
less, little more than a poorly remembered myth

Scott Cairns, Two Poems

Of Love's discrete occasions, we
observe sufficient catalogue,
a likely sounding lexicon

Scott Cairns, Two Poems

Yes. I have seen the end, and yes,
I was disturbed by what I saw.

Cathleen Calbert, In Praise of My Young Husband

Cathleen Calbert, Two Poems

Gabrielle Calvocoressi, Circus Fire, 1944

No rain for weeks, cows hold
their milk within covetous udders.

The river lies still as an infant

James Camp, Two Poems

It’s getting harder to remember the Thirties. 
Public gestures are so replacing private embraces 
That, thinking back, I can visualize old Cactus Jack 

Dino Campana, The Night

  I remember an old city, red walls and battlements, on the immense plain burnt out from the August heat, with the far-away spongy cold comfort of green hills in the background. Enormous emptiness of bridge-arches over the stagnant river dried to thin leaden puddles: a black moulding of mosquitoes shifting and silent along the banks: among the dazzle and 

Mary Campbell, Two Poems

Coffee: the tightening at the heart,
The wreath of ice, like thorns
Arranged there to give pleasure,

Stephen A. Canada, Three Poems

In bars of cement light
Orange suns chain across the sky

After the consuming rain

Stephen A. Canada, Two Poems

Stephen A. Canada, Two Poems

John Canaday, A True Story

Damned fool to make a hash of it like that.
Is this what comes from wanting to make art
out of the Middle East's sunbaked back streets?

Kevin Cantwell, Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer

   All this gold and silver for her to have
a sitter's fifty-minute hour go on
   past lunch. Stomach mewing. Saffron shafts

Kevin Cantwell, The Wooden Trap

Kevin Cantwell, Two Poems

Loren Paul Caplin, Charlie's Eye

Steve Carey, Hollywood, Spring, 1924

Zara Vanities, What do they see in each other?
It is the “soon” and “better” got them.
Feeling 'little quicker, new: A drama

Olga Carlisle, A Portfolio of Russian Poetry

Peter Carnahan, Getting Somewhere, Benching In, Suburban Station, Philadelphia

Robert Carnevale, Exemplary

Trees rehearse
the gestures of fire.
“This is how we will burn,”

Matthew Carney, Worth

Leaves when she wants, sorry bitch, 
Said the white man, presuming to judge. 
His mustache hid flakes of the itch,

Gordon Carrega, Uncle

Jim Carroll, from NYC Variations Full Text

I have walked these streets so often I could
forge the shadows of skyscrapers as they fall
to rest between the sculptured air of midtown.

Paul Carroll, De Medici Slot Machine

These eyes an accusation. 
Or quiet question 
Containing its own answer. 

Paul Carroll, In an Ozark Flight over Iowa

                                 A dazzle
                                 of a day,
                                 even though it's two below.

Paul Carroll, Mother

If I seem to patronize and always limit what I say
                to the cliches of affection, mother,
      and never give a good goddamn what you are doing:

Jim Carroll, Poem

Blue poles (well ?) on the beach
in a snowless winter and

I’m too cold to ask you 

Jim Carroll, Prell

Day changes from cannon to morning glory
her body dances death dances in the prell light

beads strung out all through Japan’s public parks, my head,

Paul Carroll, The Wicked and Unfaithful Song of Marcel Duchamp to His Queen

A trifle pompously, my love, you move among
                         the mass of nerve-
                 tissue in my cranium:

Jim Carroll, Traffic

Jim Carroll, Two Poems

Sat for three days in a white room 
a tiny truck of white flowers 
was driving through the empty window

Hayden Carruth, "The World as Will and Representation"

When I consider the children of the middle class
as representations of phenomena to my subject sense
I can hardly see them at all, they fade

Hayden Carruth, Clearing

The white birch saplings choiring in a praise
of sunlight, spring, late April, the little voices
of nature’s chorus for the clearing that was

Hayden Carruth, Two Poems

Sometimes I think you are absolutely right. Your
  rightness comes to me like the absoluteness
of God. I am vouchsafed the sudden glory

Anne Carson, The Day Antonioni Came to the Asylum

Anne Carson, Three Poems

I was born in the circus. I play the flat man.
   My voice is flat, my walk is flat, my ironies
         move flatly out to sock you in the eye.

Anne Carson, TV Men: Antigone (Scripts 1 and 2)

Anne Babson Carter, A Morning View of Bluehill Village

All he could see from this scene over Bluehill, Maine
(no distortions here: the work is from a seagirted light),
is enough of a world for any man, it seems plain

Anne Babson Carter, Three Blocks from San Marco

Raymond Carver, Two Poems

She gave me the car and two
hundred dollars. Said, So long, baby.
Take it easy, hear? So much

Florence Cassen, from Position Papers

Drawing paper down from the cupboard           sky
goes in at the top             scribble scrabble
green line grass for the bottom             filling

John Casteen, Nocturne: Redaction Full Text

Tonight I hear machines at their dark work in the dark, I understand 
the sound they make among the gaps between the trees 

Bartolo Cattafi, Two Poems

Constantine P. Cavafy, Four Poems

Paul Celan, Conversations in the Mountains

One evening, after the sun (and not only the sun) had gone down in the west, the Jew went for a walk, that is to say he stepped out of his hut and went for a walk, the Jew, the son of a Jew, and his name went with him, his unspeakable name, as he walked and went on and went shuffling along

Paul Celan, Two Poems

Snowfall, thicker and thicker,
dovecolored, like yesterday,
snowfall, as if you had been asleep just now.

Blaise Cendrars, Eleven Poems

The guillotine is the masterpiece of plastic art 
Its click 
Creates perpetual motion 

Blaise Cendrars, Panama, or the Adventures of My Seven Uncles

Joseph Ceravolo, Ho Ho Ho Caribou

Leaped at the caribou. 
My son looked at the caribou. 
The kangaroo leaped on the 

Joseph Ceravolo, Stars of the Trees and Ponds

O blue and nerveless
stars. The night and the
distance of the lake.

G. S. Sharat Chandra, Rape of Lucrece Retold

In her dream
the wind blew her vagina out the bedroom
down the Spanish steps

G. S. Sharat Chandra, Two Poems

This is the key to misery
It opens its miserable door
Attendants glum & gloom greet you halfway

Victoria Chang, How Much

Fred Chappell, Tiros II

From where I watched, the shiny satellite 
Almost occluded summer Sirius. 
I might have sworn they’d touch and set the night 

Maxine Chernoff, Two Poems

We’re watching the sad movie
for the seventh time today.
Let’s take off our tear-vial

Maxine Chernoff, Two Poems

I never had a toothache, but the desire to have one crossed my mind constantly. Once I went to a doctor, hoping for a positive diagnosis, but he attributed the pain to a small insect bite on the left tonsil. From that day I resolved to abandon the hope of ever feeling the longed for, quick stab of pain or a steady musical throbbing.

Maxine Chernoff, Two Poems

I enter a room where a fan seems to be chanting 
“Air! Air! Air!” as it whirrs. I see it's not 
the fan, after all, but a child facing the wall 

Dan Chiasson, Dream of the End of Reading

First my books grew stiff
brass clasps like the books monks read.

A hush enshrouded them. They were

Dan Chiasson, Five Poems

Here Follows an Account of the Nature of Fish.
Here follows a description of an unknown town.

Dan Chiasson, Where’s the Moon, There’s the Moon (A Story for Children) Full Text

If I look to the opposite shore and greet myself there, 
if I call out to myself come here 

Carmine Chickadel, Tangles

Clouds scuffle and clinch in this March sky;
wind presses our turned collars to chin
and Chris casts his line against the grain.

Barney Childs, Ars Poetica

Barney Childs, On the Last Veterans of the Civil War

Perhaps by the time I have written this
the last three or four will also be gone: 
not many people will mark a few less

Marilyn Chin, Lantau

Marilyn Chin, The True Story of Mortar and Pestle

Nobody understood her cruelty to herself. In this life, cruelty
begets cruelty, and, before long, one would have to chop off
one's own hand to end the source of self-torture. Yet, we

Nicholas Christopher,

Nicholas Christopher, Four Poems

In the Kyi Valley of Tibet, a snow-white desert
where an orchestra of lamas performs by starlight for the gods,
it is said that when we near death, and may least suspect it,

Nicholas Christopher, Sunday, Looking Westward

A wall of fire steals across the prairie 
and the string quartet in the downstairs parlor 
breaks off suddenly when a blizzard of light invades our sleep, 

Nicholas Christopher, The Orphanage

At the bus stop a blind man sells colored pencils.
Ballpoint pens, too, at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Ten cents for a pencil, two bits for a pen.

Nicholas Christopher, Two Poems

Nicholas Christopher, Two Poems

Amy Clampitt, Dorothy and William at Rydal Mount

“Now, I must tell you of our grandeur,”
she’d written. “We are going to have
Turkey!!! carpet in the dining room . . .

Amy Clampitt, Grasmere

Rainstorms that blacken like a headache
where mosses thicken, and the mornings
smell of jonquils, the stillness

Amy Clampitt, Two Poems

Tom Clark, A Sailor's Life

Whatever interest
there was in
difference’s gone.

Tom Clark, At Malibu

Kowabunga! The amoeba was
Venusian burgers were sailing out

Tom Clark, Bugs Ate This Lake Clean


words=canned reasoning


Grammar tells us

Thomas Clark, Four Poems

Thomas Clark, The Greece Poem

The margin of mountain grass moved from our feet
       the apron of

Tom Clark, Three Poems

I like breathing better than work
but strange is the meat
when it is yanked out of the sky

Tom Clark, Three Poems

Tom Clark, Two Poems

The sweetpeas, pale diapers
Of pink and powder blue, are flags
Of a water color republic.

Tom Clark, Two Poems

You approach me carrying a book
The instructions you read carry me back beyond birth
To childhood and a courtyard bouncing a ball

Thomas Clark, You

The door behind me was you 
and the radiance, there like 
an electric train wreck in your eye 

Kevin Jeffery Clarke, Walking Papers

Beautiful beyond belief
to look at you the whole way
would be to walk away maimed

Killarney Clary, Five Poems

There are more of us. We came out of a time when birth was happy.

Killarney Clary, Two Poems

Green beetles tick against the lighted windows. The crickets stay. I’m irritable on the phone, feel I’m supposed to entertain you, but I’ve had a stupid day and my only thought is full of complaint. You’re retired, and the delay on the long-distance line causes us to interrupt each other and to say with a harsh edge, “I can’t hear you; I’m sorry.”

Cassandra Cleghorn, Three Poems

Cassandra Cleghorn, Three Poems

My neighbor who tends the rhododendrons
across the street-mulching, fixing soil acidity,
watering by hose for a long hour each evening—

Laurie Clements, The Shaking

I know I scared you last night by shaking,
the only time you were forced to share
a dream that seemed so bad upon waking.

Lucille Clifton, Lorena

it lay in my palm soft and trembled
as a new bird and i thought about
authority and how it always insisted

Lucille Clifton, shadows

in the latter days
you will come to a place
called memphis.

William Leo Coakley, The Marriage of Dionysus and Apollo

Vic Coccimiglio, Conception

Vic Coccimiglio, Moon Child

You said you wanted to see
some baby pictures of me.
So here they are. Before you look at them

Scott Coffel, Andrei and Natasha

In a blow to Marxist thought, our romance red-shifted
from farce to tragedy. I had the paper trail to prove it,
a receipt from the erotic bakery with your phone number

Scott Cohen, Loneliness

Here I am, alone in my room, feeling lonely. 
Loneliness is horrible. This is an objective 
statement. Sometimes I think to objectify 

Marc Cohen, Two Poems

Scott Cohen, Two Poems

The difference in the speed of the thought process of a man who has just snorted coke and a man who hasn’t is a very strange number which has a cosmic meaning, that is, it enters into the cosmic processes. This number is 27,000.

I was glad to find the Bar-B-Q Book sitting on my desk because sitting on the Bar-B-Q Book was another gram of coke.

James Cole, A Glimpse from the Classroom

A fire truck goes by‚
  On its way to the station
With a low roar‚

Henri Cole, At the Grave of Elizabeth Bishop

Henri Cole, Four Poems

Scrawling the letters of my name,
I found and changed what I became:

first, HERON LICE emerged,

Henri Cole, Three Poems

Henri Cole, Two Poems

Henri Cole, Two Poems

Such is the way with monumental things:
to make us see and wonder.
The unreserved calm of the place

Henri Cole, Two Poems

William Coleman, Four Poems

All I can offer you now is weathered—
this face, these hands. I've lived too long underground.
My eyes cannot fix on the distance

Katharine Coles, Natural Disasters

Katharine Coles, Pantoum in which Time Equals Space

Eugene would say, "Someone died . Time to redecorate."
Everything we owned was secondhand.
We needed to move. We were running out of space.

Katharine Coles, Rocca Maggiore

Neck pulled back. Wrists tied. Weight pops
shoulder from socket. All disjunction.
So many Judgment Days. Hell absorbs us

Katharine Coles, Three Poems

Billy Collins, Freud

I think I know what he would say
about the dream I had last night
in which my nose was lopped off in a sword fight,

Billy Collins, Going Out for Cigarettes

It’s a story as famous as the three little pigs:
one evening a man says he is going out for cigarettes,
closes the door behind him and is never heard from again,

Billy Collins, Instructions to the Artist

I wish my head to appear perfectly round 
and since the canvas should be of epic dimensions, 
please trace the circle with a frisbee, 

Billy Collins, On Turning Ten

Billy Collins, One Self

Martha Collins, Pinks

If you wanted flesh you had to wait
till second grade, for the box
of 64. Until then you outlined us

Billy Collins, Returning the Pencil to Its Tray

Billy Collins, Sartre

This is the only reality, wrote Sartre,
this public garden and its gravel paths
dappled with sunlight

Billy Collins, The Butterfly Effect

The one resting now on a plant stem
somewhere deep in the vine-hung
interior of South America

Billy Collins, Three Poems

It has a bronze covering inlaid with silver,
originally gilt;
the sides are decorated with openwork zoomorphic

Billy Collins, Two Poems

It is possible to be struck by a meteor
or a single-engine plane
while reading in a chair at home.

Billy Collins, Two Poems

Billy Collins, Two Poems

Suddenly, you were planting some yellow petunias
outside in the garden,

Martha Collins, Two Poems

Jack Collom, 11-23-69

time is an enemy 
thick air 
a pigeon writes 

Jack Collom, Going Downtown to Buy Some Pills

The big yellow house 
up the hill   a blue-green house 
across   a gray house 

Jack Collom, Two Poems

scrambled hay
where your marble body
in some littleboy dream

Nancy Condee, Four Poems

In the late afternoon, above the town of Llanes, on the rock wall of the promenade, old men sit facing the ocean and read soft core pornography.

Sometimes nuns too visit this promenade and walk along it from one end to the other. 

Susan Conley, House of Nan King

Out after dark in what was left of the Combat Zone
we ate raw sushi next to Big Mo's Live Sex,

Carol Conroy, The Jewish Furrier Explains the Search for Beauty

Remember where I came from.
Think of a continent of sabled czars.
Leave your home. Let exile fill your mouth

Constantine Contogenis, Ikaros

Mark Conway, Two Poems

Clark Coolidge, Bee Elk

 arch     film      duds

 “Cheever”         can aiming laps

dorm  sieve


Clark Coolidge, Five Poems

Clark Coolidge, Latter

in    could    both

Clark Coolidge, Poems

g'up t'it


    passle a

Jane Cooper, House Poem

Jane Cooper, Seventeen Questions about King Kong

Bernard Cooper, Tone Poem

Patricia Corbus, Retro in Orange

Irretrievably girl in other words
      ashamed pear-shaped earnest canary
has just about licked up her past

Patricia Corbus, Two Poems

Some of the sailors
change easily. Brought
into my presence

Robert Cording, Gratitude

In his prison letters, Bonhoeffer is thankful
for a hairbrush, for a pipe and tobacco,
for cigarettes and Schelling's Morals Vol. II.

Robert Cording, Much Laughter

Alfred Corn, from 1992

Alfred Corn, from Notes from a Child of Paradise

Telling our story is . . . painful as anything
I’ve ever done. More painful than. A lapse
Of time so long and I’d assumed, wrongly,

Alfred Corn, Apartment on 22nd St.

Because dusk comes in not long
after 5 o’clock in Chelsea
and lamps come to life, a gold

Alfred Corn, Insertion Arias

Alfred Corn, La Madeline

Alfred Corn, Lost and Found

No one but the prodigal returns.
Extravagance, the same as parsimony,
disguised a bent for pillaging oneself?

Alfred Corn, Philosophy

Beginning with a fundamental, which
Sounds tonic depths, then reasons up from there,
The will to truth parts company with prayer

Alfred Corn, Two Poems

The Wife to Potiphar

Regret his imprisonment? Yes! I wanted him dead.
But a month or two of Egyptian penal correction
Should serve the purpose. No, I don't miss him, not now.

Alfred Corn, Two Poems

Alfred Corn, Who, What, Where, When, Why?

Rumor, the homemade metamorphosis;
That with each telling modifies its key
Adjectives, its semicolons; that scales

Dawn Corrigan, Three Poems

You dismiss the tiny, protesting fraction
back home, claim you've learned a nation

and its customs, people, mores. Did you and your

T. Zachary Cotler, Beautiful without Money

Suddenly fatigued among French
women in the roman

Jon Cott, Swimming

“Look, my legs,” you point after lying on the rocks. 
By your toes, water is light yellow 
like the most beautiful mouth wash. 

Henri Coulette, Antony and Cleopatra

Under the azure where the noon sun totters,
Its golden poop, its silk pavilhons
As radiant as a galaxy of suns,

Henri Coulette, Evening in the Park

Henri Coulette, The Blue-Eyed Precinct Worker

Liberal, blue-eyed, shivering, trying not
to look like a bill
collector or detective,

Peter Covino, At the Triple Treat Theatre

I used to pretend I stumbled into the place
casually, after a long day shopping or
I'd pretend I was a drunk

Michael Covino, In The Poor Part of Town

I lived in the poor part of town
where the hookers hung out on the street corners at night,
and sometimes,

Catherine Coy, In Hibernis

Catherine Coy, Three Poems

Because the houses
are low and driveways
stubby, the sidewalks

Alexander Craig, Two Poems

Here, where the people chiefly are resigned 
To doubting all the words their leaders use 
(Mass-graves that hold forgotten hopes), they find

William Crain, Tears on the Quadrangle

I was warm on the quadrangle
Warm on the grass by the library steps
Eating my sandwich

Steven Cramer, The Anniversary

Steven Cramer, The House Once Identified as Paradise

Never receives visitors, only inhabitants.
Outside, icicles thaw from the eaves in winter,
And even with its windows painted shut,

Steven Cramer, Two Poems

Steven Cramer, Two Poems

Douglas Crase, Dog Star Sale

Now the universe wants to be known for
Itself, isn’t that why we’re here
Popped out on this terrace the color of stars

Douglas Crase, Theme Park

Too much of a subject can interfere,
Be a drag, so subvert the procedure to which it refers
That the wisest course is to visit it just for fun,

Douglas Crase, Two Poems

Think of it starting out this way: in profile
Two almost immediate peaks, but widely opposite,
The basin humming with weather in between

Robert Creeley, An Illness

The senses of one’s
life begin
to fade. Rather,

Robert Creeley, Anger

The time is. 
The air seems a cover, 
the room is quiet.

Robert Creeley, Days and Days

After we
were all
a bed,

Robert Creeley, For John Duff

Robert Creeley, Poems

Robert Creeley, The Edge

Place it,
make the space

of it. Yellow,

Robert Creeley, The Finger

Either in or out of
the mind, a conception
overrides it. So that

Robert Creeley, Two Poems

The mountains blue now 
at the back of my head, 
such geography of self and soul 

Craig Crist-Evans, Heron

Nothing prepared me for your absence,
except, perhaps, the wind rattling stalks of autumn corn.

My world is always on the verge of silence,

Nicolas L.M. Crome, The Fox Hunt

The way the hunt progressed, I thought
The fox would hound me in my sleep.
The way he carved the bottom land

Ronald Crowe, Inventory

T. Crunk, Redemption

Cynthia Cruz, Two Poems

Nicole Cuddeback, Son of Medea

Sunlight sang through the chick door's crack.
   And I heard her words,
         yet chose not to wake my brother,

Nicole Cuddeback, Two Poems

The skeleton clicks, endlessly doubling
over in my hands. Damned things that steal soul
and flee. Mine, the son of a virgin father

Brian Culhane, Chekhov's "The Student"

For hours now the Last Supper has been over.
And the beating almost over, and morning's cry
Yet to be heard by the workmen in the courtyard

Brian Culhane, Knowing Greek

Once it seemed possible, those boys
Peeking out of gun slits at the German line
Or on graves detail, wet, miserable,

Brian Culhane, Two Poems

James Cummins, from a Notebook

We offer each other a dark
brew. But we must drink.

A seduction is the setting up

James Cummins, Schindler's List

James Cummins, Sestina

James Cummins, Thank You

James Cummins, Three Poems

The buildings stand, with all intention changed
from what designed and built them—killer ants,
their Gallic genes resembling old blueprints,

James Cummins, Three Poems

When I build the fire in the living room
and unroll my sleeping bag beside it
it dawns on me I’m not

James Cummins, Two Poems

James Cummins, Two Poems

Averill Curdy, Two Poems