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.

Rion Amilcar Scott on Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays"
Photo: Rion Amilcar Scott
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.
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
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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