11 243 Meters, Purple Mediterranean
The airplane wings draw new summer fragrances
in the fogs they’re expected by tomorrow's smiles
like a dawn or maybe a dusk
with a calm, lazy eyes the day
can witness the providence through all the blue truths
the winds lose their hearing with the speed of a fatal...
Title: The Low Passions: Poems
Writer: Anders Carlson-Wee
Publisher: W.W. Norton and Company
ISBN: 978-0393652383
Language: English
Reviewed by: Dustin Pickering
Anders Carlson-Wee is a National Endowment of the Arts fellow. Dorianne Laux calls The Low Passions “an ode to America, the distances between place and people, the desire to quiet the self in order...
"Publishing is a small pond but it is full of Pirhanas"
Jhilam Chattaraj: Congratulations on receiving the Pushcart Prize nomination. How important are such honours in a poet’s life?
Dustin Pickering: Thank you, Jhilam! Awards can bring underrated writers to the spotlight and offer them opportunities. An award can also encourage...
Heirloom
When your mother raises her hand; earthy
brown, skin cracked open—
sun parched field—
iron hot temper
and hits you
the pain melts your
flesh,
bones,
marrow.
When your mother raises her hand to
strike you
the pain bites (your pet rabid dog).
She throws the foliage of her swallowed dreams—
barren land that was hers
and her mother’s
and her mother’s mother
who couldn’t...
Paradise
lonely feet on a subway train
at half past midnight
she misses paradise
where every day she would
collect a pocket full of shells
why not give her home away
for another trip to the coastline without a name
our lady train rider flashes back to the nights
where she would stumble drunkenly with
another girl who split...
On Reflection
a silent tree frog
clings to broken shelves of stone
rippled by the breeze
water colors blend and blur
illusions of perfection
Beads
clusters of black pearls
press into the palms of clouds—
a broken necklace
that slips between my fingers
rains upon this garden path
On the Crossroads
O’ father,
hold my fingers in your firm grip
and help me cross the road.
Suspicion
I’ve burnt myself half, fortuitously.
And deliberately, left the rest unburned.
Bike Accident
Helmet transforms into a skull.
The road runs as usual.
Insomnia
Night burns into an ashtray.
I fly to you with the wings of ashes.
Language
this noise binds us in peculiar ways
as if it knows the frequency
at which we resonate
I can predict the weather
by the lilt in your voice and you
can pinpoint my location
by the clamor on the streets.
evening is when the suburb
breaks down into episodes,
but all I can think of is the time...
Pia Donovan
I sit on the floor in front of the old, low, brown bookcase in the dining room. People walk back and forth behind me in a silent rush, going nowhere in the small empty house. Now everyone that lived there is gone leaving two tiny empty bedrooms, his...
universe
ants working underground
not understanding
world beyond earth
computer magic
inside god box
angels wildly dancing
google and amazon music
on hold
commuter gridlock
sea of stationary cars
anxious egos idling
NOSTALGIA OF A WORKNIGHT
She’s weary as an unused toy—unwrapped,
not touched. She’s not hidden but by herself
in back of a toybox, under the snapped
off arm of her last doll. She thinks a shelf
might be nice. She’d like to hear the soft click
as her nightlight went dark and slipped
into a sleep...
The Work of Art
It is just another day
To be proud
Happy with who I am
With high self
Esteem
And the old broom and
Mop at hand.
At the Doctor
Trust, to care about
Who I am
As if to let me have
My say
Pad and pen the end
Or give me a couple
Words as a pathway.