Mariner
2026
daydreaming w/ Bob Arnold
December
Or that I would run my hand along
the dip in the hill's grey back
up to its withers, feeling
the closeness of its heat,
its inwardness risen and rises and blown away
To be among their small group,
their mouths to the earth, their silences
Uncle is, swishing away the flies
Mother is, pouring black coffee through their hair
Each of us, briefly, a tense
cast into the other's time
Not to fill my ears with the sound of my own motion
but with ear
To hear the low voices of the shadows
To exist without the memory of words
To be traversed by elk, faces, wheels
To learn to stand outside the rooms of light
____________________________
Aracelis Girmay
Green of all Heads
BOA Editions, 2025
Confessional Poem
I have this large tattoo on my chest. It is like a dream I
have while I am awake. I see it in the mirror as I shave and
brush my teeth, or when I change my shirt or make love.
What can I do? I can't remember where I got the tattoo.
When in the past did I live such a life? And the price of
having such a large tattoo removed must be completely
beyond reason. Still, the workmanship of the drawing is
excellent, a landscape 8 x 10 inches in full color, showing
cattle going downhill into a small western town. A
young man, who might have been my great-grandfather,
dressed as a cowboy and holding a rifle, stands at the
top of the hill and points down toward the town. The
caption beneath the picture reads: "Gosh, I didn't know
we were this far west."
Lake Superior
What I like best
are those rocks that
for no apparent reason
stand waist-deep
in the water and refuse
to come into shore.
You Move A Chair
You move a chair from its place in the corner
and suddenly you realize
someone had been sitting there all along.
You start to apologize.
Oh, no bother, he says and jumps up.
You are embarrassed, anxious.
He stands at the window,
hands folded behind his back,
watching the snow drift into the yard.
You can't think of anything to say.
You begin to hum in a nervous monotone.
You stand by the door.
Finally you try replacing the chair
but it's no use.
When you turn again he'll be gone.
My Feet
When I awake and look at my feet
I realize they must have waited all night,
immigrants clutching their papers,
clumsy thick-bodied peasants
still heavy with the old soil.
I think how many days they
must have stared at the ocean in dismay,
tried to cling to the pitch and roll,
no talent for swimming.
Now they stand, weary, bewildered,
still waiting, wondering which steps
to take across the snows
of this long winter
in the new world.
______________________
Louis Jenkins
Collected Poems
Will o' the Wisp Books
2023
Porches
In southeastern Ohio there are porches,
one to a hill, that lean into the calm
like the decks of ships too long, too far out.
The coal is gone and the children have nothing to say.
And in the leftover towns the men fall asleep in their hands.
And the women stand on the porches in the evening
inside the deep eye of the sun,
listening for some kind of wind,
fixed utterly in any direction.
__________________
Stanley Plumly
Collected Poems
edited by David Baker & Michael Collier
Norton 2025
Elizabeth Stevenson
℗ 2024 Concord Records, Distributed by Concord. Released on: 2024-06-21 Recording arranger, Producer: Esperanza Spalding Recording Engineer: Arthur Luna Mixing Engineer, Engineer: Fernando Lodeiro Engineer: William Luna Jr Recording Second Engineer: Raphael Rui Castro Recording Second Engineer: Enzo Menegazzi Mastering Engineer: Oscar Zambrano Mastering Engineer: Piotr Garbaczonek Conductor: Rodrigo Ângelo Toffolo Composer Lyricist, Vocalist: Milton Nascimento Vocalist: Paul Simon Composer Lyricist: Marcio Borges
Broken Homes and Gardens ℗ 2025 No Quarter Records Released on: 2025-09-12 Main Artist: Michael Hurley Composer: Michael Hurley Music Publisher: Snocko Music
At Goudberg Copse
Mother, send down blessings on this haunted place
where we tripped and fell over barbed
wire into trenches over stumps, rose
and tripped again the whole night through,
where we stumbled on terrible shapes, not flesh and blood forms
but made of a swarm of noxious black darkness.
We buried more than the strength
of the regiment on these terrible ridges.
Please hold us with unbiased compassion.
Hold with compassion the gods
and demons gathered here. Please stay here
and grant your blessings.
_______________
Elizabeth T. Gray, Jr.
Salient
New Directions 2020
Over several decades, Elizabeth T. Gray, Jr., has traced the contours and history of the Ypres Salient, diving deep into the British military archives and walking the haunted battlefield with survey maps in hand. Out of this physical and textural material, through a process of collage and an unexpectedly powerful convergence with a 12th c. Tibetan visualization ritual, Gray has composed a spare, fascinating, lyrical explanation of what she calls "The Missing," in shell-hole and curved trench, by way of magical amulets and the passage through obstacles. (New Directions)
Ode on the Wildest Word
No, sir, I am not your baby, not your twenty-dollar
shot of tequila, not your excise tax on petroleum
jelly, your high-risk dirigible in the bomb-alicious
sky filled with lies, the radio highs that last
three minutes tops, the shuck and jive of yes ma'am,
doublethink spam, drink-the-Kool-Aid
Marxist sham, the wham up-against-the-wall
cattle call of the true believers, left and right,
the slight lisp on the edge of doom. O no, Daddy-o,
I cannot swim out to your island of swoon,
or the two-bit room in the Alligator Motel, that hell,
with its sharp teeth and open jaws, the seesaw
back and forth between high noon and doom,
that tune. No, baby, I'm sitting here all alone,
grown woman, looking back on all the tricks, the love
sick delirium that blasts off to the moon
and then dissolves into a rule book and curdled milk,
the silk cave of raven wings, the slinky
rinky-dink dance with death, the breathless sigh. O my,
I'm saying no to the bye-bye lullaby,
half-hearted whisky-and-rye apocalypse afternoon,
the harpoon-in-my-gut regret that say yes
no everything, sings soprano in the church choir, mucks
in the mire outside the front door, the storm gutter
matter of cant, the torn dress and sweaty hankering
to do good, so here I am in a rococo imbroglio
of Hamlet and moonshine, the backwoods banter
that begets shame, the no-name oblivion
of staying on the bus as it travels through the war zone
and lets you off at what was once home.
______________________________
Barbara Hamby
BURN
UPittsburgh Press, 2025
Paul Simon "Graceland" 1986
℗ 2024 New West Records, LLC Released on: 2024-08-09 Main Artist: Justin Townes Earle Producer: Kim Buie Producer: Adam Bednarik Composer: Justin Townes Earle Music Publisher: Music (BMI) All Rights Administered By BMG Rights Management (US) LLC
A short song from one of Woody's radio broadcasts. (1940's?) Featured in this performance are: *Woody of course-guitar and voc. *the great SONNY TERRY on harmonica, "whooops" and voc. other musicians most likely featured in this performance: *Pete Seeger - banjo *Cisco Houston - guitar voc. (pictured with Woody at :25)
℗ 2008 Billy Bragg Released on: 2008-03-03 Main Artist: Billy Bragg Music Publisher: Cooking Vinyl Limited Composer: Billy Bragg
Soul of a Nation: Afro-Centric Visions in the Age of Black Power - Underground Jazz, Street Funk & the Roots of Rap 1968-79