Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Gordon CashYou scream your bullhorn lies, intimidate,
Harass, respect no law of man. You speak
Of scalpels, sutures, and sterility,
Dismemberment, death by regret, all lies,
And bear false witness with each one against
By Tanya OlsonWhat else should I want. But to
be a boy. A boy. At his mother’s hip.
A boy between. His father
and the plow. A boy to remain.
What else.
By Naomi AyalaNaomi Ayala performs the poem "Within Me" at the 2008 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
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By Cacayo BallesterosChapas is what cops are called
in my country
who threw the too tortured
in the lion pits
of the Military Academy zoo
By Myra SklarewMyra Sklarew reads "Exchange" at the 2014 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
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.
By Leona SevickInstead, I spotted our mother in a tiny
chair in the back row, her blue-black head
shining unnaturally. She was dressed in
By Naomi AyalaTwo blocks away
where yellow cabs
zip by without stopping
By Myra SklarewIn the mirror of infinite regress
go back. Go back to Vietnam. To a man
who can spot a trip wire fine as a hair,
