TheThe Poetry
≡ Menu

Waadookodaading Drum at the Wisconsin State Department of Agriculture, Trade & Consumer Protection Consultation with Tribal Leaders meeting at the LCO Convention Center, 10/8/14; or: MVI_8407   I can’t stop watching this YouTube video: of seven little Indian boys with their switches in hand and they begin to sing. How can you stand this? I would ask my mother at each Pow Wow, young and heartless, before it became a homecoming, their pitched wail, fevered yips and arpeggios, how the longer you stayed they were like wolves, then crows, then, eventually, the river, too. Oh yes, the river moves like this, sometimes broken by tributaries, but carried by momentum, sometimes the floodplain and one stick at a time strikes and all pick up again together like a shared lung. We who [...]

During 2016, we will shine the spotlight of our public esteem & rapt attention on two poets per month. This month's first poet is Kenzie Allen.    Fox Frazier-Foley: Talk to me about the core of your creative drive and the expression it finds through poetry. There are lots of ways to be creative in this world – what motivates you to write poems, specifically? Additionally, what motivates you to navigate the poebiz landscape? Kenzie Allen: One of the things I love about poetry is that ideally it becomes a fractal. The smallest parts of it, sentence, line, word, can each be a poem. Like a good sketch, there’s space and negative space in the poem, what is depicted and what is inferred, and the drawing’s refinement upon initial impressions through [...]

It is Easy to Say Yes to Something That Wants You   In Angela Veronica Wong’s 25 little red poems (Dancing Girl Press, 2013), sparse, thought-bubble-like poems without titles deliver us into a dark thematic forest of growth, desire, and destruction. The wolf—always a symbol of appetite and lone freedom, and sometimes of destruction—pads atop the pages, along with a bone-white moon, and winter branches. Wong is no Little Red Riding Hood, however, and at times, she is the predator, the danger, wanting to rip at her own flesh or someone else’s. Wong writes destruction beautifully, even if it is against herself. The destruction, or need for it, blends with the desire and the pain. As in poem #3: …I want someone to bite down and hold on bite down [...]

because i did not die

Nicole Santalucia

ISBN: 978-1599540948

October 2015

Bordighera Press

Reviewed by Brian Fanelli

because i did not die

'The Cannoli Machine at the Brooklyn Detention Center,' the opening poem in Nicole Santalucia’s 'Because I Did Not Die,' sets the themes—family, Italian American heritage, and addiction—that are a thread throughout the book.


. . ______________________________________________________ Jessy Randall's poems, poetry comics, and other things have appeared in Boog City, McSweeney's, Rattle, and West Wind. She is a librarian at Colorado College and her website is

Cahal Dallat

The Year of Not Dancing


The Journey

Dominic Bury

Sea Lore

Mona Arshi


  This Rain brings with it the scent of rain-soaked lilac, lemon lily. Bruised skirts of thunderclouds drop their wet hems over this prairie. It rains and the ditches brim, rains and the water rises like ire amongst the willows. What we say and do not say. The heart incandescent, riverine with distance.   ***   lilt like this: sound of droplets from leaves aaaaaa gift   gift         gift     (Shortlisted for the International Salt Prize for Best Individual Poem, 2012 Published in The Salt Book of New Writing 2013, UK.)   _______________________________________________________ Jenna Butler is the author of three books of poetry, Seldom Seen Road (NeWest Press, 2013), Wells (University of Alberta Press, 2012), and Aphelion (NeWest Press, 2010), in addition to a book of ecocritical [...]

PARADOX The hand that draws the bowstring has faith that the deer will die. The longbow bends, the arrow points, the deer stands frozen in the curious pose of prey before its doom. But Zeno suggests that once the arrow flies, it covers half the distance to the deer’s heart first, then half the distance left and half again and again and half again so the deer will live and the arrow will never find its one true home.   A woman’s faith is different than a man’s. She believes his strength is bowstring straight, his heart like longbow yew, flexible but taut. A man believes that he is not a beast-- until the string snaps, the tortured bow splinters and his fist is arcing through the air toward the [...]

Driving       under drying skies, north, passing fields the summer has been too wet to turn brown, i wait for God to appear, for poems to rise like mists, for some sort of ever   that doesn’t sting. croon to me like a wild road, sunlight spider-webbing across a cracked windshield across strange arms across a morning we can all afford to spend and live and live. ________________________________________________________ Joanna Suzanne Lee earned her MD from the Medical College of Virginia in 2007 and a further MS in Applied Science from the College of William and Mary in 2010. Her ppoetry has been published in a number of online and print journals, including Caduceus, Contemporary American Voices, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Her second full­-length book [...]

Vital Desert Lesson Number One Nothing can be more useful to a man than a determination not to be hurried. – Henry David Thoreau   Living on beans and bread in an abandoned cabin no larger than a tool shed, I’d be happy,   I once said. If I could just remain immobile, silent. No place to go, I’d read Dante’s Inferno and ponder   the nature of mass movements, the building of Babel’s tower, the steam locomotive.   Dawn and dusk I’d thank sun and moon that I’d escaped the grinding bustle, that nothing disturbed my dreams.   Oh, I know it all seems too idyllic, but one vital lesson this desert’s teaching: let nothing rush me—not the heat   I try to keep out of, not the man [...]


TheThe Poetry Blog's Infoxicated Corner has nominated the following poems (and poets) for 2015's Best of the Net:   Annie Won's "The Nine Circles of IKEA" Jezmina Von Thiele's "Transfiguration of the Black Madonna: Gypsy Goddess, Gypsy Saint" Leigh Anne Hornfeldt's "Dilemma" Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie's "Blue Libation" Margaret Bashaar's "There Is Really No Such Thing As Winning" Saba Razvi's "Gingerbread Girl"   We were privileged to give these poems a home, and wish only that we could have nominated even a bit more of the amazing work with which we've been graced in the past year. Looking forward to 2016's poetry features! Until then: onwards, and with love.

Some Men    Men who’ve kissed with passion the full lips of women they didn’t love, men   who’ve grown too reticent for the confessional, who’ve cleaned public restrooms,   wiped menstrual blood from their walls, who’ve written— then scrubbed off—vile graffiti from the rusting doors   of shithouse stalls. Men who’ve grown enormous with disregard, rolls of it bellying over   their wide belts. Men who’ve been barbers of the dead and were happy for the work,   men who’ve become what they’ve microwaved, who overvalue the quality of their erections   and fawn over them like the town’s new Wal-Mart. Men who look awful in suits, who’ve been there   and back yet grew impatient, men who go to wakes to keep up appearances, who’ve made a deal [...]

The Bride I met her on her wedding day Walked up to her, and smiled, No one ever talks to the bride I thought it might be interesting to try something new, Break tradition Henna patterns wrapped around her wrists climbed up her arms Spreading blossoms on tender flesh Her lips were a wilted crimson Tilted ever so slightly to the side, A perfect almost smile The first thing her mother taught her was to wipe the tears before the blood dries, Shredded knees heal, but shame never fades away, Don’t climb trees or ride bikes, That’s how little girls lose their virginity She sat on a porcelain throne beads and bows holding plastic flowers to the arm rests “are you alright?” I asked “I shouldn’t cry” she said, fingers [...]