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FIELD #92

(Spring 2015)
FIELD 92  
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Contents

Frannie Lindsay

Revelation
To Heartache

Maya Catherine Popa
Date, 2005
The End of the World Has Been Canceled
Scott Abels
A Quiet Pond
Thomas Lux
Attila the Hun Meets Pope Leo I
Praisegod Barebones
Dennis Schmitz
Lies
Systems
Lee Sharkey
Paris, 1947
Johannes Bobrowski
translated by Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright
Pike Season
Experience
Encounter
Bird's Nest
Nick Neely

In a White Jewelry Gift Box

Elton Glaser
Death Wish
Gibson Fay-LeBlanc

High Forest State Marginal
Letter

Eireann Lorsung
Dungeness Apartment
Aldgate
Charles Wright
How I Failed
Homecoming II
"Get in Line Brother If You Want to Go Home"
Marianne Boruch
Dickinson in the Desert
Dickinson in Snow
Dickinson in the Woods
Dickinson and the Future
Dickinson's Twenty-First Century
Timothy Liu
The Unsaid
Anna Journey
Fried Chicken Prom Corsage: Ode to My Thirties
Emily Vizzo
You Can Jump Over
Your Mouth from the Maypole Where It Weaves
Air Animals
Judy Halebsky
Warrant
Public Record
Dan Alter
Gates
David Hernandez
Figures
Christopher Howell
Another Crossing
Looking Glass Edge
Turnpike & Flow
Dave Lucas
Gawain at the Green Chapel
John Allman
How Far
This
Password
Ray Amorosi
An Aging Farmer on a Clear Night
Erin Malone
Testament
April
Sandra M. Gilbert
Gauguin, "The Meal (The Bananas)"
Jacob Lawrence's "They Were Very Poor"
Bruce Beasley
Revised Catechism
Report to the Provost on the Progress of My Leave

 


Poetry 2014: Six Review-Essays

David Young
Listening to the Silent Generation (Mark Strand, Collected Poems)
Martha Collins
So Filled the Paper Cannot Absorb (Ailish Hopper, Dark-Sky Society)
Kazim Ali
But the Darkness (Tuvia Ruebner, In the Illuminated Dark: Selected Poems)
Elizabeth Savage
Mystery Is Belief (Cynthia Hogue, Revenance)
Pamela Alexander
What Does Water Say? (Jane Mead, Money Money Money Water Water Water)
David Walker
Body and Soul (Marianne Boruch, Cadaver. Speak)

 

 

REVELATION

Not one of the prophets could bear
to speak of the real damnation,
the one ignored: a subway stop
where the inbound train was always
ten minutes late and the same old man,
a drunk who had never wished to be
anything else, hunched over
his red saxophone, playing badly,
not making a cent,
while in the village farthest away,
a boy still wearing his father's
softened, mud-stained shirt
lazily chewed on a reed
of sweet grass and stroked
the neck of his favorite horse, one
of the Four, in view of the barn
that looked on like a sorrowful parent
the moment before
the timely and measureless
burning

—Frannie Lindsay

Copyright © 2015 by Oberlin College. May not be reproduced without permission.


AIR ANIMALS

My beautiful friend is pregnant again.
Though there is the question of age.

What about my age, is what she told
the doctor. She's 34, and I'm 34.

She has a son. My children are still
air animals, things that might or might

not exist. A child is not a concept.
Nor a thing. If I believed in heaven,

I could know my unborn children
were lofting in the snow-clouds.

If I believed in science, I could know
my unborn children were "not."

In the grocery store I saw a mother
push her daughter in the cart.

She was a wild little thing,
that daughter.

Like any pet she was collared:
brown seashells strung around her neck.

I waited with peppers in my hands,
gauging my hunger.

I could not tell if I wanted to
own it or be it.

—Emily Vizzo

Copyright © 2015 by Oberlin College. May not be reproduced without permission.


 

HOW FAR

How far can a thing go and still be itself? The leaf curling,
crisping into red. My need to see you after a week apart.
A bullet from the sniper's rifle, its metal jacket a kind of buzz,
a bee, which loses itself the minute it stings. The planet
spinning so casually, its orbit so egg-shaped, as if birth were
imminent, its parallel self an airy rotation through the realm
of mountains, the shaped energy, thought streaming to
conclusions that what is here will stay, that word, intent, and vase
can be one, can be a painted porcelain valley, where entrance
beckons, where at the very edge I stare into nothingness
and then turn and turn in the ceaseless air, where limit keeps
rounding and things seem to press so gladly against my skin.

—John Allman

Copyright © 2015 by Oberlin College. May not be reproduced without permission.


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