{And Here, the Remains of a Field} by Alain Mabanckou
translated by Nancy Naomi Carlson

And here, the remains of a field

A path withstands the onslaught of ferns
Mushrooms grow
on contorted limbs of a felled rônier palm
Handles of pruning hooks
A large aluminum cooking pot overturned
at the edge of the gulch
its lid lies a bit farther off …

Two blocks of flint
for inventing fire …

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters by Portia Nelson

Chapter 1

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost … I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.

Chapter 2

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in the same place
but, it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter 3

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in … it’s a habit.
my eyes are open
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

Chapter 4

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

Chapter 5

I walk down another street.


for summer – she needs

pretty dress – cotton

cotton nottoc




tocnot tocont



Elegy from Let Us Compare Mythologies by Leonard Cohen 📚

Do not look for him
In brittle mountain streams:
They are too cold for any god;
And do not examine the angry rivers
For shreds of his soft body
Or turn the shore stones for his blood;
But in the warm salt ocean
He is descending through cliffs. Of slow green water
And the hovering coloured fish
Kiss his snow-bruised body
And build their secret nests
In his fluttering winding-sheet.

from Some eel thoughts by Michael Malay

Their voyage thus describes a kind of sinewave, a diurnal dipping followed by a nocturnal surfacing: the arc of their homecoming.

They are not returning for themselves but for the future, which makes itself felt as an itch in their bellies.

Today, there are more than one million man-made obstructions in rivers and streams across Europe.

The contradiction couldn’t be greater. On one hand, the obduracy of concrete and the flushness of steel, and on the other hand, this sinuous rope of changing life. An eel

Everywhere, though, it is being met by borders and walls, borders and walls.

I am always being born, it says, and now – can you hear it? – watch me as I disappear.  

from We’ll Meat Again by Benjamin Myers

Rust smears a sunset
over the quarantine station
as ants map the land grab
of the crumbling colony
down here in the castle of nettles.

from The Cows of Love Creek by Danusha Laméris

This is not repentance, a gesture to reset the scales-

or is it? How do we love the earth
without getting blood on our hands?

from Autumn’s Sun by Loren Connors

Oct. I3

I sit here on the toilet thinking, Well, I just have to get this out of the way, don’t I, so I can look at the trees and work.
The kid’s crying and Suzanne says, “C’mon, c’mon.” Last night he knocked over a guitar in Brian Guitars, and I thought we’d have to buy it. Suzanne started shaking and asked me, “Why’d you open the case?” I said, “It was this beautiful blues guitar, like a diamond.” “Like a diamond!” she said, with a smile that was already there.

I have to drive to the marsh today. By the road I see a maple. It’s cold, and the maple seems redder, and this howling at my truck brings it to me even more.

    little birch     no leaves, no buds
    in dawn’s light

haiga by Monica Plant

When feeling doubtful,
Why not consult a council
of trees or of squirrels?

A watercolor painting of bare trees on a shallow hill with water in the background. Bisected by lines carrying the words of the haiku

haiku by Johnny Baranski

Sleepless night&emdash;
moon-cast cell bars’ shadows
lay on the stone cot

A pen and ink drawing of brick wall, cell bars, moon, and spider web

haiku by Johnny Baranski

This heat!
snow-clad mountains framed
by the cell block window

An ink drawing of the window image in the haiku

haiku by Jamie Everhart

summer sunset
a snake in the mouth
of a snake

from Topsy-Turvy World by William Brighty Rands

Ba-ba, black wool,
 Have you any sheep?
Yes, sir, a packfull,
  Creep, mouse, creep!
Four-and-twenty little maids
  Hanging out the pie,
Out jump’d the honey-pot,
  Guy Fawkes, Guy!
Cross latch, cross latch,
  Sit and spin the fire;
When the pie was open’d,
  The bird was on the brier!

from Recollections of My Nonexistence by Rebecca Solnit

Growing up, we say, as though we were trees, as though altitude was all that there was to be gained, but so much of the process is growing whole as the fragments are gathered, the patterns found. Human infants are born with craniums made up of four plates that have not yet knit together into a solid dome so that their heads can compress to fit through the birth canal, so that the brain within can then expand. The seams of these plates are intricate, like fingers interlaced, like the meander of arctic rivers across tundra.
​ The skull quadruples in size in the first few years, and if the bones knit together too soon, they restrict the growth of the brain; and if they don’t knit at all the brain remains unprotected. Open enough to grow and closed enough to hold together is what a life must also be. We collage ourselves into being, finding the pieces of a worldview and people to love and reasons to live and then integrate them into a whole, a life consistent with its beliefs and desires, at least if we’re lucky.

haiku by Ramesh Anand

sizzling noon
buffalo walks away
with the pond

A Cottony Fate by Jane Hirshfield

Long ago, someone
told me: avoid or.

It troubles the mind
as a held-out piece of meat disturbs a dog.

Now I too am sixty
There was no other life.

Halloween Haiku by Jone Rush MacCulloch

scarecrow in the field
wears last winter’s torn raincoat
murder of crows land

The Blue in Beets by Erica Funkhouser

The blue in beets
comes and goes
sometimes a shadow
of the weeds
where beets grew
or of their towering leaves
other times a suggestion
of what the beets
might have been:
blue birds
blue stones
blue fish
blue whales
blue water.
If blue isn’t here
it’s there
if it’s not there
it’s coming
if you have just seen it
it will be back
if you have never seen it
you will.

Time by John Wieners

Why is it eternity lasts a moment
a moment eternity?

Are you quiet enough to hear horned owls
at dawn?

I hear voices rustle in the leaves
after they are gone.

New mice burst into life. Small raccoons
bear tiny chains around their wrists.

from sky hammer by Julian Talamantez Brolaski:

I took my sky hammer &
pounded out a few choice
clouds, cirrus and I don’t know, nimbus
as in a god on earth
moving in space as a great auroral mist
a god who beholds the sparrows
washing in the dusty gravel
of frankford avenue



by Maggie Graber

via Lue’s Poetry Hour

Love, show me your teeth.
Show me the night settling

like a black pond, moon
a glint in a wolf’s eye. Show me
your eyes of bone-white

and shadow, the bonfires
that stripped off our bark

and your throat full of bees.
Look. The river changes tenses
and I can’t get enough of this

light, the needlework of stars
and the dozen broken hearts

it took to get to this one—
a marble peering through ashes
like moonlight in mist.

via WeCroak

The sense of a long last night over civilization is back again.

We are close to dead. There are faces and bodies like gorged maggots on the dance floor, on the highway, in the city, in the stadium; they are a host of chemical machines who swallow the product of chemical factories, aspirin, preservatives, stimulant, relaxant, and breathe out their chemical wastes into a polluted air. -Norman Mailer

from The Woman Who Couldn’t Describe A Thing If She Could By Mary Ruefle

a poem that combines my (apparent) love of poems about/with doors and poems that describe things in ways that seem, at first, absurd until you realize that’s exactly what they are

A thought is silent talking to yourself in your head. But you can still hear it. This is the number-one difference.  After the eating and the conversation, one of us gave money for these things. You just hand it over, and for a moment you can see it, it is moving from one hand to another hand and you can see it, it is paper. But it is not usually shown, most of the time you keep your money out of sight. It is hardly ever in the air. It is not like a necklace or something. But at such and such a time, you take it out and give some of it away. You never give your necklace away. All the same, a necklace is a sign of money. It just is. You show the sign that you have things hidden. It goes back and forth, like a conversation.  Two of us were wearing necklaces and two of us were not. That is a fact I added together later, so you would know.


from Devastation & Hope by J. Drew Lanham:

I climbed up; watched a sharp-shinned hawk recycle some unfortunate songbird and listened to the lucky trees that were left talking in leaf rattle to the river rushing by.

by Shido Bunan:

Die while you’re alive, and be absolutely dead, Then do what ever you want: it’s all good.

from A Coast-Nightmare by Christina Rossetti:

 Only ghosts in flocks and shoals:
Indistinguished hazy ghosts surround there
  Meteors whirling on their poles;
Indistinguished hazy ghosts abound there;

#todayspoem A Blank White Page by Francisco X. Alarcón:

is a meadow
after a snowfall
that a poem
hopes to cross

a haiku by David Oates:

abandoned gas station
paper cups bleaching
in the weeds


from How to Write by Anne Waldman:

Once, on the Sixth Avenue bus
I got a sudden sensation
I had been alive before

That I was a man at some other time

You would think this strange if you were a woman

If I were a man right now I’d be getting out of the draft
but I think I’d want to be a poet too

Which simply means alive, awake and digging everything

Even that which makes me sick and want to die

I don’t really, you know

I just don’t want to be conscious sometimes
because when you’re conscious in the ordinary way
you have to think about yourself a lot

Dull thoughts like what am I doing?

A lot of drugs can change you if you want
because you too are made of what drugs are made of

In fact you are just a bundle of drugs
when you come right down to it

I don’t want to go into it
but you’ll see what I mean when you catch on


from Oblivion by Kevin Young:

In the field the cows consider
    oblivion, mulling

it over. They & their many
    stomachs know nothing

stays lost forever—that grass, almost
    cruel, resurrects again,

again. They know even
    drought will end

haiku by Goichi Imase

the place
higher than goose
it is called the sky

Second Crow by Matthias Göritz, translated by Mary Jo Bang:

From the balcony, sliced light
leaves behind an arm.

\lev\ by J. Drew Lanham

this selection is in honor of the thrush whose morning today turned out to be its last, after a window

from A Year’s Supply of Poetry by Patricia Finney:

So quality is a difficult thing to pin down

And the fault might very likely be with me

And not him and his convoluted effusions.

To Sturgeon’s Principle, I add Finney’s Corollary

Which says that at least 10% of everything

Might be good.

#todays poem
Haibun With Insects by Megan Kim

here’s the haiku portion


Lightning bug, firefly
I say grass lit like heaven
Is it a violence?

What I Believe By Kimberly Blaeser

I believe the weave of cotton
will support my father’s knees,
but no indulgences will change hands.

I believe nothing folds easily,
but that time will crease—
retrain the mind.

I believe in the arrowheads of words
and I believe in silence.

I believe the rattle of birch leaves
can shake sorrow from my bones,
but that we all become bare at our own pace.

I believe the songs of childhood
follow us into the kettles of age,
but the echoes will not disturb the land.

I believe the reach of the kayak paddle
can part the blue corridor of aloneness,
and that eyes we see in water are never our own.

Visitors by Joan Naviyuk Kane:

Every door stands an open door:
our human settlements all temporary.

We share together the incidental shore
and teach the young to tend the lamp’s wick,

weary of anyone small enough to bar our entry.

haiku by Jacquie Pearce

a boy swings a branch swings a boy

A Haiku I Like by Bob Lucky:

summer blues
wisteria high in the branches
of a dying tree

A Haiku I Like by Ann K. Schwader in The Heron’s Nest:

in this uncertain world dandelions

A Poem(?) I Like: Sonic Verbs (68) by Marc Weidenbaum

babble, bawl, bay, blow, bombinate, burble, burr, buzz, cantillate, cheep, chirr, chirrup, churr, clang, coo, crackle, croon, drone, echo, echolocate, fissle, gasp, groan, gurgle, harmonize, hiss, howl, hum, intone, keen, mewl, moan, mumble, murmur, mutter, nasalize, oscillate, psithurate, purr, resound, ring, roar, rumble, rustle, scream, screech, shout, shriek, sibilate, sigh, sign, snore, sough, squall, squeal, susurrate, swish, thrum, thwack, trill, vibrate, wail, whimper, whine, whir, whisper, yell, yelp

When the Airbnb turns out to be filled with poetry books.

Poems 1962-2012 by Louise Glück 📚

A poem I like: A Future Game by Jeffrey Wells-Powers:

I am pleased to announce
Some of the things
That won’t concern me
For the next couple of years:

A poem I like: sonnet no. xlviii, 2 by James Maynard

i’m looking forward to this crown

A poem I like: haiku by Renée Owen:

against the currents black crow wind

A poem I like: haiku by Dustin Hackfeld

A twilight of grackles—
the old gate swings
in the autumn wind


Let’s start this off with a piece that isn’t a poem. Or is it?

A tragedy is a haunted house with the prison-like spatial constraint removed. You are free to move yet not to escape the event. An equivalent definition is that a tragedy is a haunted cosmos, which is another species of house.

A hero dispelling a haunting is the intersection of two tragedies. Most often this isn’t a battle but a hallway between slightly separate rooms.

One reason I love the (Poem-A-Day)[https://poets.org/poem-a-day] series is because the “About This Poem” section can be as rich / interesting as the poem itself. And sometimes more so. saying of il haboul by adelaide crapsey is as interesting to me for its form as its content.

My tent
A vapour that
The wind dispels and but
As dust before the wind am I

Tommy Pico is great to read, but even better to listen to. Do both with an excerpt from his book poem Junk.

What can you do with a mythology? Let’s ask ex patria by evie shockley

a person who knows all the answers can only borrow a mythology like i’m king midas or i’m god. a painter can take a mythology and remake it so that it answers a new question

autumn is answering the question about gorgeous rotting. just magenta, green, brown, pink, yellow, red, violet flying off the mythological canvas.

Assessment as poem from poetry trapper keeper

I’m always opening parentheses I forget to close

Never Seldom Sometimes Rarely Often Always

A haiku by Chris Gordon

talking about talking about clay

The sun also rises, as they say, but what else does?

one day
the neon
will burn out

and then what
sun rises
like rent
sun rises
like a flag
sun rises
like the ocean

I have a thing for crow poems.

and why? The crow long gone now, and what marked the line between winter and spring?

A poem I like: Mark Truscott : A DESCRIPTION

A concatenation of enactment
and resemblance of and in
language: a room, silence, sound.

A poem I like: Airsoft by A. Van Jordan:

And toy guns masquerade as lethal guns
in a boy’s dreamland where no one dies,

where they simply lie down and play dead,
but they live to play on.
As mysterious as a cat in a box,

a toy gun in a Black boy’s pocket,
the gun neither dead nor alive,
unless offered a chance to empty

his pocket to solve the paradox
of what a day might hold.

had a hard time narrowing down the excerpt, sorry if it “ruins” “the end”

A poem I like: Foxglove Country by Zaffar Kunial

Alone it becomes a small tangle,
a witch’s thimble, hard-to-toll bell,
elvish door to a door. Xgl

we claim ownership
with lines drawn
in invisible ink

siren song of
a neighborhood emergency
moths to a flame