The Grand Silos of the Sacramento by Lawson Fusao Inada

The Grand Silos of the Sacramento by Lawson Fusao Inada From a distance, at night, they seem to be industries—all lit up but not on the map; or, in this scientific age, they could be installations for launching rocket ships— so solid, and with such security, are they. . . Ah, but up close, byContinue reading “The Grand Silos of the Sacramento by Lawson Fusao Inada”

Circumambulation of Mt. Tamalpais by Andrew Hoyem

Circumambulation of Mt. Tamalpaisby Andrew Hoyem Those paths on the mountainside which neither ascend nor descendbut proceed at a level, are overgrown from disuseby human beings if ever they wentalong these routes. Animals and other spirits who do not disturb the foliage overheadwalk through the foothills, past the mountain,without observing its heights orthe surrounding depths.Continue reading “Circumambulation of Mt. Tamalpais by Andrew Hoyem”

North of Santa Monica by Carter Revard

North of Santa Monica by Carter Revard It’s midnight in a drizzling fog on Sunset Avenue and we are walking through the scent of orange blossoms and past a white camellia blown down or flung by someone onto rainblack asphalt waiting for the gray Mercedes sedan to run over and smash its petals and leaveContinue reading “North of Santa Monica by Carter Revard”

Arboretum by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Arboretumby Don Kingfisher Campbell As you enter pea tail eyes stare at you A bush of red firecrackers seems to explode Are those tall thin “candles” speakers from The Time Machine film Yellow microdresses pirouette from a tree Spider egg sacks become burst popcorn kernels Magenta bottle brushes grow outward in all directions Here’s somethingContinue reading “Arboretum by Don Kingfisher Campbell”

James Sutherland-Smith, A Snail in Istanbul

A Snail in Istanbulby James Sutherland-Smith The sultan of moisture creepsOn a flagstone shadowed by nettles.He carries his turban on his backAnd shows his tentacles, a scholarBareheaded out of the mosque.No doubt his hidden mouth is primThough his tongue, rough with hungerNot prayer, will rasp on greenery:One foot, one lung, one kidney,One gonad, mostly male,Continue reading “James Sutherland-Smith, A Snail in Istanbul”

Istanbul by Ümit Yaşar Oğuzcan

Istanbul by Ümit Yaşar Oğuzcan A room in the house, Istanbul in the room A mirror in the room, Istanbul in the mirror The man lit his cigarette, an Istanbul smoke The woman opened her purse, Istanbul in the purse The child cast a fishing line, I saw, And he started to draw it, IstanbulContinue reading “Istanbul by Ümit Yaşar Oğuzcan”

That autumn was abundant by Marjorie Agosín

That autumn was abundant by Marjorie Agosín Translated by Jacqueline Nanfito That autumn was abundant In Istanbul the ancient and platinum Women with their faces covered and discovered My grandfather arrived on foot to this Ottoman city From the desolate Sebastopol and from other burned villages, From the bloody snow. He spoke about its minaretsContinue reading “That autumn was abundant by Marjorie Agosín”

Connemara by Maureen Grady

Connemaraby Maureen Grady I must now leave this landthat I love with a physical longing. There’s a Covid! a tiny local woman calls out,breathless and afraid,as she waves to me from the crossroad.She runs round to my windowto see who I might be,and what in the world I am doingthere in the far, far westonContinue reading “Connemara by Maureen Grady”

Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin by Patrick Kavanagh

Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublinby Patrick Kavanagh O commemorate me where there is water,Canal water, preferably, so stillyGreeny at the heart of summer. BrotherCommemorate me thus beautifullyWhere by a lock niagarously roarsThe falls for those who sit in the tremendous silenceOf mid-July. No one will speak in proseWho finds hisContinue reading “Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin by Patrick Kavanagh”

Spring in Belfast by Derek Mahon

Spring in Belfastby Derek Mahon Walking among my own this windy morningIn a tide of sunlight between shower and shower,I resume my old conspiracy with the wetStone and the unwieldy images of the squinting heart.Once more, as before, I remember not to forget. There is a perverse pride in being on the sideOf the fallenContinue reading “Spring in Belfast by Derek Mahon”