Skip to main content

Poetry

Some Thoughts on Sylvia Plath

The woman next to me was astonishing in her stillness. She appeared perfectly composed, quiet, almost fixed in her concentration. She was softly pretty, her camel's hair coat slung over the back of her chair and a pile of books in front of her. Her notebook was open, her pencil poised. Everything seemed neat. This was Sylvia Plath.

August

I am not old but old enough to believe
I know what Jimmy Stevens wants
when he invites my sister
into his Model-A. And because

Twelve Views of My Father

1 Grown so young she has a name, my father's grandmother, Cleavy Rowe, settles into the portrait's ancient rocking chair, having never told a living soul about her boy who died as she, for the first time, holds him. 2 Look, seal-slick and laughi [...]

Shaving the Graveyard

The graveyard being what he called his face; even as a young man he called his face the graveyard—he talked like that, funny, odd things that scared me sometimes in our early years—I thought maybe he was a little touched (his Uncle Bob was certi [...]

Night Piece

It is night. I feel it is night
not because darkness has fallen
(what do I care about darkness falling)
but because down in myself the shouting
has stopped, has given up.

The Sound A Body Makes

Only three days later I realized the chalk outline was gone, faded, no doubt, in the rains that flushed the gutters clean, & now a steady line of haze as the sun walks its beat. There were photographers, yes, a few nights back: flashbulbs burp [...]

Pages