Sean Shearer
There were woods behind my house
scattered with berries I couldn’t digest. I’d curl on top of the dirt
hugging the knot inside my belly and now
I’m in bed kissing a pale green vein
as I listen to his voice like a knife with its scar—
six birds stretched
across a fret board.
from the book
Red Lemons /
University of Akron Press
What Sparks Poetry is a serialized feature in which we invite poets to explore experiences and ideas that spark new poems.
In Reprise, we will republish some of the most loved essays from our What Sparks Poetry series. We hope that you will find joy and illumination in revisiting these essays with us.
- April 18, 2021
Tiana Nobile
Of an animal, especially a bird. A wandering species
whom no seas nor places limit. A seed who survives despite
the depths of hard winter. The ripple of a herring
steering her band from icy seas to warmer strands.
- April 17, 2021
Donald Revell
My mother's name was Doris,
A Greek unknown to her. Hidden
Among the wild herbs in their patterns
Are first things, and first things never die.
To them, the afterlife is a memory.
- April 16, 2021
Benjamín Naka-Hasebe Kingsley
as every thing begins with the heart beat of horses
a tribe the thudded color of all creation
my people gather brindle as if the night
were drizzled long across their backs she
of sickle sword of tendon & tusk
- April 15, 2021
Maria Stepanova (translated from the Russian by Sasha Dugdale)
they travelled a long time
longlongtime
dumbstruck stillstanding trees
not-earth and earth pressed close
builder's yards morgues fly-tips
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