Robert Hass
He was a solemn and delicate little boy.
His father was a physicist, and I could see
on the day that I watched him on the beach
in La Jolla, that the shell in his hand was no toy
to him. He had learned to look at things.
from the book
Summer Snow /
Ecco Press
What Sparks Poetry is a serialized feature in which we invite poets to explore experiences and ideas that spark new poems.
In Delineated: Prose Writers on Poetry, we invite prominent writers of fiction and non-fiction to reflect on the poetry that inspires them. Our featured writers describe how poetry illuminates their creative lives, whether as inspiration, a daily practice, or a thread of hope through difficult times.
- May 14, 2021
Ghinwa Jawhari
what a doll i was those years after the towers
fell. i went blonde as one goes insane, womaned
with a new name, an easy olio for the tongues
that tsk'd me. gone were the guttural
consonants, the hairs connecting my brows.
- May 13, 2021
Emilia Phillips
The way that the sea fails
to drown itself every day. And entendre alludes all those not listening.
- May 12, 2021
José Luís Peixoto (translated from the Portuguese by Hugo dos Santos)
Alone, I arrive in a looted city
and walk slowly, my arms hanging
loosely, I look through open doors,
what remains is scattered in the streets
- May 11, 2021
Rodney Terich Leonard
Some people don't schwa the A in her name,
they won't ah it, like they do for ago & anonymous.
Into secondhand enunciation, they dote on & long-
chew the alphabet's first letter, its crunch-gristle, A-dele.
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