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thank you note
sworn spoon over lost moon, swoons & so forth out of the brink, on the pan handle dawn & ample drawn curtain curtailing calling all suitors & adjunct professors to join the spelling spilling breeze & last month’s discourse playing plaid & underused unpopular patterns fleeing the market to ruin my own jokes & my […]
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Drew Kunz, contributor
Suggested Reading / nor, Issue 1 Aufgabe 6, Spring 2007 In Search of a Lost Ladino: Letter to Antonio Saura, by Marcel Cohen Invocation, by Gale Czerski Case Sensitive, by Kate Greenstreet Record-breakers, by Anthony Hawley Picture of the Basket, by Sarah Mangold Caller and Other Pieces, by Tom Raworth Suggested Listening Music From the […]
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O Rose, I’m sick too: notes on William Blake’s “The Sick Rose”
I recently spent some time re-reading William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience. In the course of my reading, I became obsessed with his poem “The Sick Rose.” Initially I wasn’t sure what accounted for my fascination with this short, ostensibly simple, poem. But the more I lingered with it, the more I was […]
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The Luminist’s Notebook
A Cultural Society digital chapbook. Click here to view The Luminist’s Notebook.
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Poem for Roberto Bolaño (1953-2003)
in the dream fragments of images gather and condense, contract your figure emerges then suddenly stops a red shirt, jacket the color of jade, glasses that frame eyes as radiant suns you greet me with smiles, no introduction we know each other how can this be, R.? i’ve read your books and you’ve been dead […]
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1862.53 (445-448)
They shut me up For Treason Him It is That We wonder it was not Of Portion — so unconscious There breathed a Man Could He — know — they Could They — know Horrid Neither — could be heard Oh, Reward When One who died for Truth
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Untitled, 1938
from Kate’s collection umber as interior hard angles combust the lines the lines christ I fall apart at scenes like this the colors o the colors
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Shay Park
creek bed’s collected reeds exchange shape with light with water • upturned trunk’s roots caulked by moss, mud, what sun a web snags • mud- blackened creek bank’s drainage pipe’s rolled r’s • stone wall a few ferns fallen there in place • […]
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Poem with Space
At the end of the night, night. Night again. Another night. Or do I say that it’s still night, night continued. Part of me — not quite my original face — would love to. And months approach like stones.