Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Claudia RankineMahalia Jackson is a genius. Or Mahalia Jackson has genius. The man I am with is trying to make a distinction. I am uncomfortable with his need to make this distinction because his inquiry begins to approach subtle shades of racism, classism, or sexism. It is hard to know which.
By Anne Waldmanthe aquarium deserted now,
this is the song at dusk I write in the notebook:
strange skin
By Wang PingI'm not a singer, but please
let me sing of the peacemakers
on the streets and internet, your candles
By Yusef KomunyakaaThanks for the tree
between me & a sniper's bullet.
I don't know what made the grass
By Gretchen PrimackThis is the press of the earth. One star hanging
there, honking like a goose. The lake
a smudge of black juice, the hill a draped
By Sam HamillHalf broken on that smoky night,
hunched over sake in a serviceman's dive
somewhere in Naha, Okinawa
By Patricia MonaghanJust past dawn in early fall,
a sparrow screamed at me
as I walked into the woods.
By Pages MatamMa Mere n'a Jamais eu des ailes
My momma never had wings
But she could tap dance on hurricanes
By Purvi ShahThe mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
By Joseph RossIn a summer of snipers
some men raised their hands
with fingers pressed