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Jonathan Thirkield

Born and raised in New York City, Jonathan Thirkield graduated from Wesleyan University and the University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop where he was a Truman Capote Fellow.

In 2008, his collection The Waker's Corridor was selected by Linda Bierds for the Walt Whitman Award, presented by the Academy of American Poets.

He lives in New York.

By This Poet


Your Journey (4:111)

Boat toy boat law boat low in Melodie's arms. She blows green water ripples, she squeezes humming blots from bows, her lungs. She goes

No. No honey. She bolts high birds filled with fancy over her pale Melodie. Now darling leave, let it set. Let it boat now. Mother links

Me, Melodie lapsed on a string. The watches are stirring with scissors. Low boats in the sing. She bleats and she pushes the paper pink

Boat, sail first, into green. It swallows her fists. The water is thick. With boats seasick with boats. Where lime dyes eddy she rows.

Abend (10:101)

In Köln, each triangle picks at the dome; spines work their way, out of the scaffolds and stainless girders, into spires.

A brown even sky with light fixtures in the dents; her mouth overlaid by a few beads of frost on the train window in transit.

The station's metal wrists. Traced white with snow. A ministry of interstice. Of atoms tensed inside a crystal lattice.

The fiberglass shudders. She holds down his knee to steady them. Pins the other against the side rail. You were sleeping.

Are we there?

We pass as two shapes may assume a form of love. If just in passing. In the seats across a slender man bends over a book placed

At his knees. His daughter rests a flashlight on his shoulder, her ear pressed firmly to his jaw. Should he be whispering?

A tree. Lit momentarily in the passing. Train lights. Quickly it grows. Ductile. And cannot hold to its shape. What sound

Now grows with you? I am not standing. In a steel extension of when snow. Was not heavy before metal. But light on one spoon.

The overlook passes. The cathedral arrows. From the small lungs inside her. A coughing; it crowns. To the rounded south.

Design for a Silver Box in the Shape of a Melon, 1918

after Peche

In sheet metal or silver shallows
filled with these:
hollow, floating
where some assumed votives
would be lit. Or

Do you see the time of day? With still
some red to
flush the waders,
scatter against a few
boats, and fire

Distantly, first. When we see the flare,
we listen.
Sand buries at
our ankles. They appear,
the apples or

Printed along the wallpaper, half
submerged in
their setting, brushed
dark with stems, the silver
flats folded in
fans. Too

Many of the waders grasp the stem
and pull off
the top of an
apple or melon, so
the base fills with

And sinks. Silver leaves from the stem. One
small woman's
pearl earring drops
like so many others
in the shallows.

I met a woman in Viennese
glass. What was
in her jewel case?
A shade that turns over
a blue trellis.

Theater (or garden) on the flattened
silver wall,
a gray screen where
boats fire, the blush falls
and dyes a cherry