Poetry

Nor its manifold mirages, billows and mountains
And mislaid islands shifting by the minute, which nonetheless

Do exist—as image, not as body

I intend to converse with many. None in the same room.
I have a daughter to search for, an acre of farmland to sell.
I must confirm that flour is falling and copper is rising;

We are not allowed to take photographs.
Not allowed to tell you certain things
Or which things those are. The screens

Two men walk on a path. 
One has a blade in his pocket.
We do not know if the edge

First, decide where water stops
And ice begins. Then, where ice

If hunting a lion, the weight of one’s gaze will scare it off. 
So one must always close his eyes before hunting a lion. 

This week’s poem, “God Knows English” by David Caplan, is complemented by a photograph by Noah Rabinowitz. The poem and photo are part of a series by Caplan called “Observances,” which appeared in our Spring 2012 issue on the state of...

This week’s poem is by Claudia Emerson: “Greengrocer.” It appeared in our Spring 2012 issue on the state of American Poetry. To download a high-resolution PDF of this image, click here.