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
from the journal The Common
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.

Rion Amilcar Scott on Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays"
Photo: Rion Amilcar Scott
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.
Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
Lauren Camp
With wine, I went right to the open mouth, took it down, familiar with the charm of my own particular sin. It was as if I had already all the history of my two worlds, morning and later—
Valerie Mejer Caso (translated from the Spanish by Michelle Gil-Montero)
The sky in its ultramarine hour frames that tremendous, impossible moment when the stores close. The seamstresses turn to other seams.

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