Copyright © 2023 by José Felipe Alvergue. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 28, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Copyright © 1962 by William Carlos Williams. Used with permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this poem may be reproduced in any form without the written consent of the publisher.
Copyright © 2023 by Moncho Alvarado. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 25, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.
s no s laves s in nest/s with
in come sir my lie
ge lord it i
s now y/ our turn co
me b e me rains fa
ll no wa ter in t me and p
lay your p
art the sun ros he t
ub under sk
in sin for ty days fo
rty nigh ts forty ce dis for forty
sins j'aim faim j'ai
faim god of spire spes and p
raise turn and turn the bo nes sing
a son g of wa
ter a wat er so
ng sin g song sin g song de
fend the d ead & sin n
o sin sin g the bo nes h/o
me what w ill my b ones say h
ow do the y forty we
eks come to t erm shh au di can you
not he ar from the de
ep the voi
ces not sir ens we are a
t sea the d art of my sto
ry stings i me
ant no harm no hurt res
cue us rag and bone men in
dict the a ge pears in g
in in wine win ter wine and y
ou Ruth this story ne
sts in the ne t the we b of ti
me tam p it down do
use the flam e of this ta
le what pro fit me if mon coeur non est
we wind o ur way sub
water o
nly the bone s of the sh
ip their e yes dart this
way and th at soft so
ft they ro
am the ship their cri
es grate on me
y ears drag the dee
p for the b ones of my so
ul their sou ls cast the n
et wide to the d eep men to the
p and a tot of ru
m...
From Zong! by M. NourbeSe Philip. Copyright © 2008 by M. NourbeSe Philip. Used by permission of Wesleyan University Press. All rights reserved.
Students of movement play in front of mirrors all day
Students of movement revel in tranquil river babblings daydreaming how they can make those patterns their own
Students of movement have a love-hate relationship with floors, walls, and gravity
Students of movement study pigeons, worms, dogs, turtles, fishes, snakes, swans...
Students of movement strive to understand their bodies and how their muscles and limbs can transform raw emotion into physical expression
Students of movement respect all genres of dance, martial arts, meditations, and interpretations
Students of movement
Nod to rhythms echoing through hollow stairways
envisioning
fluid patterns
and gravity-defying poses...
...training to each
Subway bus passing
Leaves rattling
Book pages flapping
Audience clapping...
Searching their souls
for the spontaneous
sequence that will
set them free
subsequently
freeing others
fascinating in
the freedom set forth
By
syncopated high-hats
stage shaking stomps
three-second jumps
frictionless spins
and the sheer
beauty of
pure
Movement...
Used with permission of the poet.
On New Year’s Eve, my father overfills the baskets with oranges,
mangoes, grapes, grapefruits, other citrus too, but mostly oranges.
The morning of the first, he opens every window to let the new year in.
In Chinatown, red bags sag with mustard greens and mandarin oranges.
A farmer in a fallow season kneels to know the dirt. More silt than soil,
he wipes his brow and mumbles to his dog: time to give up this crop of oranges.
The woman knows she let herself say too much to someone undeserving.
She lays her penance on her sister’s doorstep: a case of expensive oranges.
At the Whitney, I take a photo of a poem in a book behind the glass.
Above it, a painting: smears of blue, Frank O’Hara, his messy oranges.
The handsome server speaks with his hands: Tonight is grilled octopus
with braised fennel and olives, topped with peppercress, cara caras, and blood oranges.
No one at the table looks up, ashamed by the prices on the chic menus.
The busser fills my water and I inhale him: his faraway scent of oranges.
Seventh grade, Southern California: we monitored the daily smog alerts.
Red: stay inside. White: play outside. I forget what warning orange is.
Clutch was serious about art and said our final projects could be
whatever . . . performative . . . like, just show up with a wheelbarrow full of oranges.
Jan, in all of those first six years, why is all you can remember this:
the mist rising in the sunny air as you watched her peeling oranges.
Copyright © 2022 by Jan-Henry Gray. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 28, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.