Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Carolyn ForchéCarolyn Forché reads "The Museum of Stones" at the 2008 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
These are your stones, assembled in matchbox and tin,
collected from roadside, culvert, and viaduct,
battlefield, threshing floor, basilica, abattoir–
stones, loosened by tanks in the streets
By Niki Herdthe black body found
next door near the house where
the blind girl lived
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 Pages d. Matamever seen the smile of a brown child
so loud it leaves Jericho shakin' in its overpriced boots
ever seen the smile of a brown child
so late the rest of the world still wanna catch up to its wind
By Brian Gilmorelike fidel after raiding
moncada barracks
we face history like
seed removed from
soil
By Kim RobertsOysters may look to us
like wet floppy tongues,
but there’s no licking.
There’s no touching.
By L. Lamar WilsonShe ambles about this Mickey-Dee kitchen’s din,
unmoved by the hot grease threatening
her ¿puedo tomar su orden? mask.
By Anna B. SuttonThis morning, there is an angel hanging by a thread,
cartoonish and carved out of soft wood. She twirls
circles above me, manipulated by the pulse
of a ceiling vent.
By Bettina JuddLucy didn’t scream like most. Though sometimes she
would moan--deep, long and overdue. I’d wake
thinking death. It’s her, knees curled under, head face
down, her body trying to move out of itself. Anarcha
By Julie EnszerThe painters call before we move into the new house. Ma’am, they say—
I am not old enough to be a ma’am, but I don’t correct them—
Ma’am, they say, we smell gas.
I dismiss their concern. I say, Keep painting.