Shannon P. Laws' Latest Poem Explores Metaphor and Self
From Daniel Klawitter, A Profusion of (Unkind) Metaphors
Joanna Suzanne Lee: Richmond Was Not
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A Loom
Her lap is a loom Her hands a steady weft And from the weave a murmuring Of moths on threads unseen, Unheard, she listens for the man Who comes to call, to sit upon the stool Pulling at the cotton til Her fingers find his wrist Cuffed and white and crisp The buttons tightly imitating eyes Tucked away in creases and lies About the place, about the time As though by stitch and by Stitch she could hide him Crouched and hushed and hazardous As a fine shirt pin |
Silent Gaps out here there is no music to distract from those tiny spaces between a sense-object and its mental response only the whine of insects, rustle of wrens in thick shrubs the high-pitched hum of the world spinning the hollow silence, negative pull of words left unsaid, the air draining away empties the body. I sit alone on a cliff, no grace notes out here only empty light, the wind slightly grazing my head earth tones too subdued for any song, holding still, the voices long gone, only the gaps in my head remain. Read the poetry of Emily Strauss Read a profile of Emily Strauss |
Twitchy Servant This must have been what it was like in medieval times a young princess flocks of twitchy servants trying to read her mood this morning laughing was banned and now socks are forbidden last night I didn’t know about the pillows and I sat on one she screamed no and I jumped up quick to obey to stop the sound of her yell that scraped the inside of my head and it must have been this way with royal offspring except she might have stomped and shouted off with head for the pillow infraction perhaps or for not finding the right pen or when the balloon popped and I couldn’t put it back together and maybe the next day lopped head buried or drowned or however they disposed of the guilty the young princess would ask for that nursemaid and someone would softly remind her what she’d done and she’d realize she missed her kind smile and that time they slipped in the mud and laughed so hard they peed a little in their dresses and her heart and stomach would tighten like she was choking and she would look around for who to yell at bring her back. Read the poetry of Samantha Reynolds Read a profile of Samantha Reynolds |
Reading Runes Older ones are written on scraps of yellowed paper folded like letters that will never be mailed. Some recent ones have been written in the kitchen and bear unsavory, unrecognizable stains. Some are dumb in the sense they will never speak again, and in the other sense—full of false grandeur, silly notions, abstract weightless ideas, wrong words. On many unfinished poems the hopeful poet has written copious notes to herself about how the poem must be revised: add a word here, this is a terrible title. What does it mean? Here is the key stanza. Why is it buried in the middle of the poem? Some of the notes are questions, but the poet is scolding the unfinished poem as well. Most of these works-in-progress will always be in progress, because the poet doesn’t have the sense to know when to stop. Those writers who stop in the middle of a line presage a failure of nerve or breath or pure ennui. The words, the gaps, quenched flame—all must be read like runes. Read the poetry of Eleanor Swanson Read a profile of Eleanor Swanson |
That Thing About Inner Life ☊
The clouds this morning are doing that thing where they roll along the horizon blacking out the sunrise like some ominous distant mountain range like I'm out west not stuck in this flat middle and this run to the gas station is a wilderness expedition and this fear in my chest is fear for my life because beyond that tree (street corner) or across that river (stop light intersection) a mountain lion (tan sedan) or grizzly (black SUV) might be doing their thing minding their business until their business is my business and all this business of living crashes and collides like galaxies or atoms or lovers doing their thing that looks like destruction but is actually creation until all the things quivering with relief lay trembling on the floor |
Rocking-chair My rocking-chair is my dream machine In my rocking-chair I can be happy at no cost brave at no risk and eternal In my rocking-chair I shyly smile loudly laugh and secretly weep My rocking-chair is my grandmother's lap my frozen ears and blinking eyes my choking throat and my gurgling guts My rocking-chair is my rumination machine rocking back and forth I wander and wonder I amble and tremble I act and pretend I live and I die Read the poetry of Amauri Solon Read a profile of Amauri Solon |
Beach Walk moonlight painting shiny silver beaches shadow footprints speak our path as we walk along the shore arms around each other, heads close together laughing with the wind telling secrets about the stars and naming the waves as they break gently on the sand barefoot tidal mambo surf lapping at our toes sand sliding back to the sea grain after grain, magically drawn like a lover going home and we stop to honor the journey holding our intention to be as strong and our love as vital and rhythmic as the tide On My Radar There you are A blip on my screen A glowing green dot Suggesting you really do exist And looking for clearance to land My runway is alight Lower your landing gear And taxi on over to my gate Read the poetry of Jill Lapin-Zell Read a profile of Jill Lapin-Zell |
Without Knowing I stand still with you in an empty building old voices absorbed into hollow walls as a sound we cannot hear as fragments of a memory escape innumerable shapes of black and grey I watch shadows move beneath dim street lights as the first sight of daylight pierces through broken windows I'm listening to you sleep waiting for you to wake to be still with you without knowing the early light of morning Read the poetry of Jacob Salzer Read a profile of Jacob Salzer |
In My Lover's Womb
1. In my lover's womb I play her ribs like A xylophone. We Make music until The roses wither. 2. In my lover's womb I knew that I would Have to clamber down Out of her jelly, Swaying crook morning. 3. In my lover's womb She flowers inside A crimson kiln, a Roses firestone Seeking the Sun's flames. 4. In my lover's womb, It is a place for Making noises, hear The breeze outside her Lining of sunset. 5. In my lover's womb Desire is a red Dye of joy untold, Cocooned in her shy Blue November eyes. Read the poetry of Grant Tarbard Read a profile of Grant Tarbard |
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