We’ve hosted a lot of great poems this year, including these…
“I could have listened /to him forever if that was a choice I had. Instead, /I’m building a sculpture of words, called ‘I never looked /for God in my Father.'”
One year after Syrian forces declared victory in Aleppo, Adam Hughes reflects on the horrors the city has endured.
Ota Benga was kidnapped from the Congo, Africa, and put on display in a cage at the Bronx Zoo, New York City, in 1906. This poem pays homage to him in the hope of keeping his memory alive and that others would not experience the same fate.
“forget the stats /for one season a man discovered /his brilliance by doing what came natural /the graceful arc of the ball /all eyes watching as it soared”
“I don’t want the word dead around my kids/ or around any mother’s son so I say Honey, you were never dead /and he says Then I fell like a raindrop into your mouth and I say Yes”
“Childhood ponds skate into space; and, yes, this is winter—the calendar’s last portion.”
“The meds encased in little clear domes, /villages of white and primary colors—the porcelain /of your clonazepam, the yellow of your Seroquel, /the blue of your Adderall”
GMP’s Pushcart Nominations for 2017
Award-winning poet Austin Allen talks sports, pleasure, and poetry. Form and failure are also on the table.
“In a moment of weakness, I’ll ask the heart how many beats /before it releases the twenty-one grams of my soul… /It has already /chosen the outfit I’ll wear in my coffin.”
“If I organize the photos in my phone /from Least to Most Remembered. /If I nap till after midnight. /If I recite the names of all the /bugs I’ve ever crushed underfoot.”
“What are you doing? /Nothing. Nothing not boy /enough, Mr. Solo. (You knew it /before you knew it, /Jimmy Jenny.)”
T.J. Sandella’s poem exemplifies toxic masculinity.
Is There a Balm in Gilead? For Bayard Rustin On a street where it’s alwayssummer, on a daywhen it’s always 1948,your song rises into ether:“There Is a Balm in Gilead.” Even though I neverknew you, your singingcalls me. My ears consumethe timbre of your spirituals.When your wordssoared to India, you metMahatma Gandhi, his acheglowing from…
“Through the holes in my hands, I see /my son with all the blood that used to be mine.”