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CONTENTS |
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Charles Wright
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Buffalo
Yoga Coda I Buffalo Yoga Coda II Buffalo Yoga Coda III |
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Angela Ball
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Ears |
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Alice Friman
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Invitation
#2 The Dream of the Rotten Daughter Shattering |
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Carole Simmons
Oles
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An Excuse For Not Returning For Your Memorial Service |
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Kevin Bowen
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Night
Walk: Hoan Kiem Que Hung |
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Kary Wayson
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The
Chief Snarcissus |
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C. P. Cavafy
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Days of 1909, '10, and '11 |
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Kevin Prufer
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Caligula,
Clairvoyant Claudius Adrift |
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Norman Dubie
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Ordinary Mornings of a Coliseum |
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John Gallaher
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Keys
to Successful Disappearing Hot House Hottentots |
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Camille Norton
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Monday
Music Songs Against Ending |
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Pattiann Rogers
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A Traversing |
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Radha Marcum
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Route
50 Flowering Tree |
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Elton Glaser
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Half-Numb from Winter, on a Morning Almost Warm |
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Sandra M. Gilbert
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Skunk |
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Gerald Majer
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1948: Dizzy's Fez |
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Arthur Sze
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Oracle-Bone
Script X and O |
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Frannie Lindsay
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Remains |
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Bruce Beasley
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This
Living Hand The Atoms of Unmeaning |
| Poetry 2002: Four Review-Essays | |
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Martha Collins
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Into His Word (Agha Shahid Ali, Rooms Are Never Finished and Call Me Ishmael Tonight: A Book of Ghazals) |
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David Young
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Risks and Rewards (Gabriel Gudding, A Defense of Poetry; Ellen Bryant Voigt, Shadow of Heaven) |
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Pamela Alexander
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In Troubled Times (Mary Baine Campbell, Trouble; Kevin Prufer, The Finger Bone; Joy Katz, Fabulae) |
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David Walker
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The Real Story (Robert Thomas, Door to Door) |
Come to me.
Be one with my absurdities.
The mountain quivers in the gunmetal heat
And what voices I thought I longed for
Babble in a pencil case. Come, I say.
Don't just stand there like an end table
For all your on-guard sensibilities.
Watch my mouth. I am not your wallpaper.
I am not your Channel 8. The owl's swoop,
The mouse's cry, play out against dusk's
Well-oiled machinery. Even the colors
Fall into disrepair. We are not exempt.
The time devoted to writing this
Could have been heaven in a hammock
Kissing the no out of your mouth.
--Alice Friman
The night moves in silken dresses.
Sleeveless arms and thin bared legs beckoning.
Streetcorner sandals raise a body
forever weightless in the air.
Lights of cars dragon-eyed in dusk.
The city's soft geomancy of love.
Everything always as if on the point of entering another landscape.
As if life were only a matter of bodies and spaces,
there, for the light to sing.
--Kevin Bowen