The Mysterious Press
2013
daydreaming w/ Bob Arnold
A Brief History of Mirrors
Now we come to the age of sparrows in the throat.
When I was a child I spoke rain slantwise into this tree and
that.
There was a Japanese bowl from the Kamakura period.
Even then, it held the roundness of now.
Count with me here the number of owl feathers fastened to
the moon.
Ask your own mouth to consider the quiet movements of a
river refusing monotony.
At times we appear released, as if breaking with a great force.
We shyly and reflect upon and — of course — away.
There was a mirror incident in Borneo that did and did not
involve me.
So it is with the water buffalo that brought parasites from the
watering hole into my lover's arms, and brought her — after
many years — back into mine.
______________________________
George Kalamaras
Robert Desnos Finds His Sleep Medicines
Beneath Bachelard's Floorboards
MadHat Press, 2024
If Today Were Tomorrow
THE RIVER
Kneeling
on a yagual,
bent over a stone,
my mother washes
and washes
and washes.
My little sister
sleeps in a basket
covered in willow leaves.
Me? I am sitting
on piled straw,
watching how the water leaves
and how the river stays.
ON THE FLOOR
The moon
finds holes
in abode houses
then slips in
to sit on the floor.
AT THE SPRING
In still water,
a rose-winged dragonfly
sailing on a dry leaf.
A PLANK
I wish I were
simple as a tree.
Or even better,
a plank.
WHAT IS, IS
Let's cut the bullshit:
Ghosts?
They exist!
A town without ghosts
is not a real town.
But
the ghosts
have got to be real.
NIGHT
Dark night
darker than dark
and smelling of rain.
On nights like this
no one knows
where earth ends
and the sky begins.
TIRED
With the full weight
of a chopped-up tree,
the load of firewood
drips sap
down my back.
My head strap turns to fire.
I stop for a bit
and my shadow stretches out long
to lie on the ground,
maybe more tired than I am.
PRAYER
In church
the only prayer you hear
comes from the trees
they turned into pews.
STONES
It's not that stones are mute:
they just keep quiet.
THE MOON ON THE WATER
She wasn't beautiful
but she hit me
like the moon on the water.
FLIGHT
I am a bird:
flight lives
inside me.
BIRTH
Poets are born old:
as the years pass
we make ourselves into children.
WALKING BACKWARDS
Every now and then,
I turn and start walking backwards:
it's my way of remembering.
If I only ever walked forward,
then I could tell you
what forgetting is.
IN THE DARK
I learned to sing through pain
like a bird in the dark.
_______________________
Humberto Ak'abal
If Today Were Tomorrow
Milkweed, 2024
Once there was a goat
in my mother's village
that would dance while
the old knew to ignore
the affairs of the world
____________
Ronald Baatz
The Last Monkey
Black Fig Press
2024
V I R G I N I A H A M I L T O N
Virginia Hamilton
"Liberation Literature"
ReLIT Book
edited by Arnold Adoff & Kacy Cook
_____
"Five Novels"
Library of America
edited by Julie K. Rubini
The end of days
the threshold of evenings
still it is not night
still the birds take flight
still the trees stretch out.
Soon it blows cooler,
the night and the dream.
~
And no record
of those days
tangled into one another
devoured by flames
that burned us:
The wounds of happiness
Become stigmas, not scars.
There would be no record,
if your account
had not been imparted —
poetic language
is a place, not a refuge.
~
I love the earth,
as if traveling
to a foreign place
and not otherwise.
So life spins me
quietly on its thread
into unknown designs.
Until suddenly,
like a journey's farewell —
the great silence cuts the thread.
_______________________
What Remains
The Collected Poems of Hannah Arendt
TRANSLATED BY SAMANTHA ROSE HILL
Liveright, 2025