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Jane Kenyon
I turn on the radio. Wrong.
Let's not have any noise
in this room, except
the sound of a voice reading a poem.
book
Graywolf Press
Feature Date
- November 29, 2020
Series
Selected By
Reginald Shepherd
You’re walking down the street alone,
absorbed in the anticipation of a lunchtime salad
with that crusty olive bread you like so much,
and suddenly you’re marching in formation
in a crowd, it’s called a regiment.
You seem to be a soldier this time, you learn
to be at war.
book
Persea Books
Feature Date
- November 28, 2020
Series
Selected By
Gaius Valerius Catullus (translated from the Latin by A.J. Woodman)
I left there fired, Licinius,
by so much of your charm and wit
that in my wretched state no food
agreed with me, no sleep at night
would close my eyes, but, uncontrolled
in frenzy, on my bed I tossed
and turned, craving a sight of dawn
to speak and be with you again.
journal
Ancient Exchanges
Feature Date
- November 27, 2020
Series
- Translation
Selected By
Choi Seungja (translated from the Korean by Won-Chung Kim & Cathy Park Hong)
Nobody raised me.
I was nothing from the beginning,
sleeping in a rat’s hole,
nibbling on the flea’s liver,
dying absentmindedly, in any old place.
book
Action Books
Feature Date
- November 26, 2020
Series
- Translation
Selected By
Samuel Amadon
Having to be so without having to be so, I take my seat at the bar.
It's my manner. I'm willful. Absent. Crisp. And cold. I know
where to point my eyes when speaking, when listening, when
the check arrives. I'm having lunch today because
I'm pretty civilized.
book
Solid Objects
Feature Date
- November 25, 2020
Series
Selected By
Barbara Jane Reyes
They will say, your language lacks finesse, your words low. They will form air quotes with their white fingers, say something clever about color. They will corral you into their lowness, as you sully their well-lit high poetic annals. With your darkness.
book
BOA Editions
Feature Date
- November 24, 2020
Series
Selected By
Alexander Vvedensky (translated from the Russian by Matvei Yankelevich)
I find it hard to be with minutes,
they have completely confused me.
It really upsets me terribly
that I can be seen in reality.
And then there’s this grudge that I bear,
that I’m not a rug, nor a hydrangea.
book
New York Review Books
Feature Date
- November 23, 2020
Series
- Translation, What Sparks Poetry
Selected By
Elana Bell
I don’t know when I noticed the pale
pink shoots sprouting from the submerged
ends: wild, reaching roots, like ginseng, or the hair
on an old woman’s chin. Then tiny green
leaves began to appear at the tips,
curling over themselves with the sheer effort
of growing.
book
BOA Editions
Feature Date
- November 22, 2020
Series
Selected By
Yalie Kamara
While sipping coffee in my mother’s Toyota, we hear the birdcall of two teenage boys
in the parking lot: Aiight, one says, Besaydoo, the other returns, as they reach
for each other. Their cupped handshake pops like the first, fat, firecrackers of summer
journal
The Adroit Journal
Feature Date
- November 21, 2020
Series
Selected By
Éireann Lorsung
The nation contains intrinsic defects.
Something has been sending out messages at the rate of decay.
This varies. Because nò bòdy does nòt respond to radiation.
It is concentrated on those who witnessed the explosions, and in the soil.
book
Milkweed Editions
Feature Date
- November 20, 2020
