Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Vincent ToroA lung lit like diesel
is not fable or fodder.
Is not sewage siphoned from stern
and starboard. Cuffs, not slapdash plums
plunge from your garden
By Fatimah AsgharThe names of my family members swirl
like dust in my lungs. I try to write about birds
& only pull from my pen animal skin.
My bones alive & a lament of dignified grief
By Aracelis GirmayWhen the boys are carnivals
we gather round them in the dark room
& they make their noise while drums
ricochet against their bodies & thin air
By Lee SharkeyA man is lying on a sofa.
The man has been reading.
He has laid down the book beside him.
The man's form is waiting to be occupied.
By Niki Herdthe black body found
next door near the house where
the blind girl lived
By Elmaz AbinaderOur skin has turned to parchment
Our skin has turned to parchment
Our skin are the scrolls upon which
This history will be written
By Venus ThrashEver since my next-door neighbor stopped
in front of the stoop, unfolded The Post
to her son's smiling face, I've been obsessed
with the Obits page.
By Kenji LiuAsk me again why I am here
with this pine, this wild oyamel,
their great succulence of reason
You, machine lyric
and State, every state,
By Ross GayIs that Eric Garner worked
for some time for the Parks and Rec.
Horticultural Department, which means,
perhaps, that with his very large hands,
By Rosa ChávezRi oj ab'aj xkoj qetal ruk'a k'atanalaj ch'ich'
Xk'at ri qab'aq'wach //
Las piedras fuimos marcadas con hierro candente
quemados nuestros ojos //
We, stones, were branded by hot iron
our eyes scorched