Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Mandy ShunnarahWe might have told them, if they’d asked,
the poppies wouldn’t make it to their melancholy
island, no matter how swift their sails snapped
across the sea. Then again, we love our land more
than they love theirs; we long to return, not flee.
That’s why you don’t see us boarding clippers
to claim to ground not ours. With our bountiful
fertile crescent, who needs more plenty?
By Siaara FreemanWhen I say ancestors, let’s be clear:
I mean slaves. I’m talkin’ Tennessee
cotton & Louisiana suga. I mean grave dirt.
By Travis Chi Wing LauI shrug off my messenger onto the floor and forget to kiss you when I walk through the door.
By Bianca Lynne SpriggsWoman,
I get it.
We are strangers,
but I know the heart is a hive
and someone has knocked yours
from its high branch in your chest
By Allison Pitinii DavisBefore him, stickers fade across the bumper:
LAST ONE OUT OF TOWN, TURN OFF THE LIGHTS.
The last employer in Youngstown is the weather:
the truck behind him plows grey snow to the roadside
By Philip MetresHow a Basra librarian
could haul the books each night,
load by load, into her car,
By Kazim AliI was whispered along the road at Ache
toward the sun-puddled gate
By Jeff GundyA good day for late wildflowers--daisies and burrs
leaned out into the path for a better view, brilliant
blue somethings with tiny blooms on tall stalks.