Poetry Daily
Tolu Agbelusi
each night a diluted memory infiltrates my dreams—you catapult me to heaven on the slat of a swing, shine my wrists with oil from the oranges in mum’s garden
from the journal wildness

What Sparks Poetry is a serialized feature in which we invite poets to explore experiences and ideas that spark new poems.

In our current series, Object Lessons, we’re thinking about the relationship between the experienced and imagined world. We have asked our editors and invited poets to present one of their own poems in combination with the object that inspired it, and to meditate on the magical journey from object to poem.

Heather Green on "Fable for a Genome"
Photo: Heather Green
James Richardson
It’s not so common, in this practical century, for lovers to pine away, and as our climate warms, pines are retreating higher, but late as it is, anyone sleepless will hear the sound of the wind thinning through pines as pained.
Heather Green
In the sculpture, Aeneas wore a helmet, held his son’s hand, and carried his thin father, weathered and wild-eyed, but alive. My father was bearded and wild-eyed before he died.
Jose Hernandez Diaz
Sometimes I wish my Spanish were better, Like to the point where I could speak it without Having to think about it. I can get by, trust me, But it’s broken. Like that trendy restaurant downtown: Broken Spanish.


Rose McLarney
How long I watched, how I loved to watch, and how I tried to make him a little home. But what is wanted wants to leg it elsewhere, no matter.

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