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Poetry

Some Thoughts on Sylvia Plath

By Kathleen Spivack

Spring 2004

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.

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August

By William Kloefkorn

Spring 2004

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

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Twelve Views of My Father

By Patrick Phillips

Spring 2004

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 [...]

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Shaving the Graveyard

By Thomas Lux

Spring 1992

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 [...]

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Night Piece

By Mark Strand

Winter 1978

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.

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The Sound A Body Makes

By Gerry LaFemina

Spring 2002

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 [...]

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