Lee Robison's poem "Love Has No Moon" to appear in anthology.
Eric Studdard was working on his three hundred and twenty-third masterpiece. This one would be a winner for sure. He had spent the better part of an hour on it and the poem was currently two hundred and ninety-seven words long, with thirty-one lines and seven and ¾ completed verses. It was composed along the … Continue reading “Cynosure” Fumbles a Masterpiece
She’s no mealymouth art, that damned mother of wordbirth— nothing fickle about that old tart. Honest as the odor of earth true as you in all your affairs, she is nothing—only your worth. How you carry her loamy dares to amend the alter altar you’ve built of your damaged despair will tell only the soily … Continue reading For Student Poet Dreaming of Inspiration
You ride your draw or quit. And quit I do not know. But this black-blazed bastard took his head the first jump out, slamming numb my arm, leg, and every thought for tongue I tried. So, I raked the only spur I had left and willed from numb enough to mark and keep this muscling … Continue reading Stroke
Soil entombs no deeper chagrin for gilded nativity than barned birth So how does empty blue of sky exult any more than the brown odor of earth?
She slowly slips out of dark's star-jeweled robe to don, and then undress, the orange rind bikini— a blush as shameless as Venus dimming— and arrays—again, as slow as longing— the vast blue skirt of the sun. What is the pun in this riddle?
In the slow, urgent cadence of cattle, the black cows move again across a landscape of yellow grass and snow to where they last heard the familiar bawl, dumb to all but ache— whether of teat or heart we men cannot know, though we watch and have had familiar loves that for a summer of … Continue reading Weaning
Water, you would say to me, is God and kneel to touch your lips to water and water softened soil and with your ever thirst suck deep within you the body and the blood of the only holy you could will your love— I have never had Another and will not. Though I sup at … Continue reading Irrigator’s Prayer
To see hunter's moon slide door open and startle— deer shadows, gone.
As per Assignment: A Compositional Analysis in Three Sentences First, you will notice the white of the white man’s body and its curve that is part of the spiral of their violent encounter, a round of violence repeated in the ring of men who are not as men might be, but as these men are, … Continue reading George Bellows’ “Both Members of This Club (1909)”