TheThe Poetry
≡ Menu

Whitman has more listings than an anal retentive suburbanite.

____________________________________________ Alina Gregorian's poems have been published in Sink Review, Boston Review, GlitterPony, and other journals. She curates a video poetry reading series at the Huffington Post, co-curates Triptych Readings, and co-edits the collaboration journal Bridge. She teaches creative writing at Rutgers University, and lives in Brooklyn, NY. She is here.

Ode to the Beloved’s Hips

The Smoke that Settles

The Eggshell Parade brings you a reading and interview from writer Woody Brown. Woody reads his short fiction piece "Sillyhead," which appears in issue 12.3 of DIAGRAM.

New Year’s in Corfu

The Eggshell Parade brings you a reading and interview from poet Neil Shepard.

After Rapture I am found kneeling beneath the last _____blasted tree. Winter on my shoulders and a sparrow's red skull lodged _____in my mouth. I have cut my hair to feed the fire. Remnants of a city _____dusting my lips. No nations left to die for or hide in. Only this voice— _____woven through the cracks of a halved piano: that sound a doe makes when the arrowhead _____replaces the day with an answer to the ribs' quiet hollows. I reach _____for the charred branch and push. Blood dots the dust beneath me. My wet face titled _____skyward. I push until he starts to crown, my name already dripping from his lips. He writhes _____through me, scraping for that precious shard of light, where the wolves _____have already gathered— their [...]

I try to rely on composition as much or more than instinct.

I thought things were wrong: it manifested in me buying and wearing Ulysses blue eyeshadow. It didn’t suit me. One day I stared into the mirror at the caked crystal of smudged me and said ‘You look like a whore’. I was cheap, cheeky, comehithersome—but clientless. Makeup remover in hand, I finally admitted that you had left without me. That you weren’t coming back. That the rocket we’d saved so hard for belonged to you alone. On the moon, water tastes like oysters and makes you orgasm when drunk and vegetables are as small as the teeniest seashells yet pack a bomb of good—one mouthful lasts a week. The sky is a new colour, a colour called star, it is a secret worth keeping. The ground is sponge. You bounce [...]

THE ICE

Contrapuntal is not a book about diametrics, bipolarity, or extremes, but rather a sonic and sonorous exploration of the way music, sound, time, and relationships exist throughout the body, mind, and self.

What is the difference between a poem we call mawkish, or overly sentimental, and a poem that carries the right amount of sentimentality and wit?

(after the monoprint by Michael Donnelly) Stars empty themselves – no show tonight. The Bowl opens its mouth and your teeth shudder. The ground contracts with cold: you’re trembling. Your head falls against the steel cables the lights go off in Government house. Far above you the Arts Centre spire extends its white finger into the night: gulls circle crying holy holy holy Down here a Leunig festival of weeping alone in the dark while Government house is sleeping. Stars get nailed to the night sky. You take the silence for an answer. This poem was written for The Disappearing, an app that (literally) explores poetry and place, which you can download for free Cathy Altmann is a Melbourne poet, teacher and musician. Her poetry has been published on Melbourne’s trains [...]

What Night Knows
After Gaugin’s Le Cheval Blanc

The Eggshell Parade brings you a reading and interview from poet Marie-Elizabeth Mali.