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Derrick Austin
I can’t imagine myself reading bedtime stories
to a toddler, and I’m older than my father was
when he read those brightly colored books to me.
journal
Blood Orange Review
Feature Date
- January 26, 2021
Series
Selected By
Máirtín Ó Direáin (translated from the Irish into Ojibwe & English by Margaret Noodin)
I will find Solace
A short while only
Among relatives
Without sorrow
Without mind worry
Without loneliness
Without confusion
In the west
journal
Ojibwe.net
Feature Date
- January 25, 2021
Series
- Translation, What Sparks Poetry
Selected By
Sarah J. Sloat
An erasure from Sarah J. Sloat's book of visual poetry, Hotel Almighty.
book
Sarabande Books
Feature Date
- January 24, 2021
Series
Selected By
Jane Wong
Hunger eats through the air like ozone. You ask: what
does it mean to be rootless? Roots are good to use as
toothpicks. You: how can you wake in the middle of
a life? We shut and open our eyes like the sun shining
on tossed pennies in a forgotten well.
book
Orison Books
Feature Date
- January 23, 2021
Series
Selected By
Cherene Sherrard
Mouth organ at midnight.
One woman supine, another
quadrilles—all blush crinoline
and caramelized curls—in a swamp:
what slithers and steams, moss.
book
Autumn House Press
Feature Date
- January 22, 2021
Series
Selected By
Kathryn Smith
Tell me again of the lepers who learn
to shed their disastrous skin
by eating the meat of vipers: something
transmutable in the flesh. The ancients
spent lifetimes considering
the resurrection of irretrievable
parts:
book
Milkweed Editions
Feature Date
- January 21, 2021
Series
Selected By
Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work...
book
Penguin Random House LLC
Feature Date
- January 20, 2021
Series
Selected By
Charlie Clark
To be serious is to have something unwavering inside you.
And, oh, how I waver. I’d write anything so long as it was beautiful.
It’s beautiful to touch either of my wife’s hands.
My wife’s hands are warm as flagstones set out beneath the sun.
When I touch them the ringing in my ears becomes the tuning of viola strings.
I think it was something like this that made Andre Breton write “Free Union.”
book
Four Way Books
Feature Date
- January 19, 2021
Series
Selected By
Sotero Rivera Avilés (translated from the Spanish by Raquel Salas Rivera)
My artificial arm,
carelessly tossed on some couch,
can laugh like an aimless shoe,
destroyed,
thrown to nights and rain
in what was once my yard.
journal
Action Books
Feature Date
- January 18, 2021
Series
- Translation, What Sparks Poetry
Selected By
Stephanie Niu
There were two times I heard my father sing.
Once from behind the camera, panning to my brother’s
birthday cake, his happy birthday a key off,
so bad it is valiant, my brother blushing before the table.
The second was at a feast—a mountain village
south of Kunming where, my father pointed out,
people readied for winter like animals,
mixing butter into their tea.
journal
Southeast Review
Feature Date
- January 17, 2021
