Poetry Commons^™

Man Divine, Steven Clark

Sketches: the Online Creative Arts Journal of Tennessee State University

No abstract provided.

Sea Nettles, Clearing The Brambles, Everything But The Ashes, Michael Salcman

Ontario Review

Michael Salcman has published recent poems in such magazines as Barrow Street, Harvard Review, and Raritan. His fourth chapbook, Stones in Our Pockets, and first collection, The Clock Made of Confetti, are forthcoming in 2007.

Kilroy At The Zero Hour, Story Time, John Hennessy

Ontario Review

Recent work of John Hennessy has appeared or is forthcoming in The New Republic, The Yale Review, Harvard Review, and Best New Poets, 2005. He resides in Amherst, Massachusetts.

Another Short History, Dog Almighty, Peter Desy

Ontario Review

Peter Desy, a recently retired English professor from Ohio University, has poems in or forthcoming from Shenandoah, Virginia Quarterly Review, and Green Mountains Review among other journals, and a poetry collection, Driving from Columbus. He is currently living in Ocala, Florida.

Notes From The Corners Of Noon, Lisa Furmanski

Ontario Review

Lisa Furmanski recently returned from several years of doing hospice care and working with antroretroviral care in Uganda. She is now a physician at Hitchcock Clinic at Dartmouth College.

Goat Song, Colossus, Marble Boy, Idris Anderson

Ontario Review

Idris Anderson's poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, The Nation, Paris Review, and other journals. She was a student at the American School of Classical Studies in Athens in the summer of 1991, when she saw the goat in "Goat Song." She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Skiiing Antarctica, Back To Buffalo, Beverly Burch

Ontario Review

Beverly Burch's recent work appears in numerous journals, including New England Review, Poetry Northwest, and Southern Humanities Review. Her first book, Sweet to Burn, won the Gival Poetry Prize and a Lamda Literary Award. Sheis a psychotherapist in Berkeley, California.

Springbomb, Who, Tom Wayman

Ontario Review

Tom Wayman's recent collection, My Father's Cup, was shortlisted for both the Governor General's Literary Award for Poetry and the B.C. Book Prize for Poetry. He teaches at the University of Calgary, Alberta.

Basho, Specimens, The Work, Campbell Mcgrath

Ontario Review

A Guggenheim and MacArthur Fellow, Campbell McGrath is the author most recently of Pax Atomica (Ecco, 2004). Current work appears in the New Yorker, Poetry, Kenyon Review, and many other journals.

The James Merrill Digital Archive: Channeling The Collaborative Spirit(S), Shannon Davis, Joel Minor

WashU Libraries Presentations

The James Merrill Digital Archive, comprised of Merrill’s poetry drafts, typescripts, and Ouija board session transcripts, is the result of expertise and input of many collaborators across the Washington University campus. Shannon Davis and Joel Minor will speak on various aspects of the project, including successful cross-campus collaboration, employing student workers to perform high level encoding and exhibit curation, and how Omeka was used to develop the digital archive. - Shannon Davis, Digital Projects Librarian, and Joel Minor, Curator of Rare Books and Manuscripts

On The Origin And Future Of Poetry: Notes Towards An Investigation, Carlos Aguasaco

Publications and Research

An exploration on the historical and material conditions that allowed the emergence of metaphors and poetry alongside language. This article analyzes the historical relation between poetry and technology across history. It discusses the so-called ontological crisis of poetry and opens the conversation on its future.

Grampy Hagen's Tale, Steven Schmidt

Manuscripts

"They's some folks what believes in haints," said Grampy Hagen. We, my brother Johnnie and I, were ready for bed, but first we huddled together in front of the fire while Grampy Hagen sat in the big old oak rocking chair. "Yes, sir, some folks believes in haints 'n spooks 'n things. But I weren't one of 'em, no sir! Leastwise, not afore I spent the night in the cabin down in the holler by the Willow Creek wash."

And Not To Yield, Lisa Nowak

Manuscripts

Harry Theobald, formerly called Ulderico Theobaldi, entered the kingdom of God today at 11:02 a.m. having lived his life with all the vigor he possessed. At age 76, he died of leukemia at the Golden Hills Nursing Home, leaving three children and three granddaughters the deed to his warm spirit. Included in his will was a document citing three basic inheritances--faith, hope, and love--to be practiced with positive consideration and serious contemplation in his remembrance.

Doughnuts At Night, Michael Martone

Manuscripts

Open, it says, all night.
the tacky lights talk
flicking around the yawning O
and the open hole of the doughnut.
a planet peers through.

Indian Summer, Noel Wyatt

Manuscripts

As the blood red sun began to sink, a silhouette broke the painted scene. It approached the Apache Reservation roaring like the Father Wind on a winter day. The beast seemed to shout its name above its own voice; across its shiny hood "Lincoln" defied any opponent.

A Fourtwothreelegs Poem, Ed Shacklee

Manuscripts

The first grade teacher greeted
with simplicity the coming of the Day

Untitled, Alice Monds

Manuscripts

He took an old Barlow knife from his pocket and eased into the cane bottom chair, tipping it back on two legs against the low stone fence. Methodically, he drew the gleaming blade across a fragrant block of red and yellow cedar. His gnarled, weathered hands moved deftly. He worked intently for some time, honing the block to a soft roundness and piling thin light curls of cedar around his feet. He peered at his companion from singular eyes set below incredibly unmanageable gray brows.

Of Sap And Tears, Diane Hale

Manuscripts

I sit in the woods
and watch the stream
admiring the trees as they ripple and flow
Waves sweep us in,
lulled into dream-sleep,
carrying us away--
content to settle beneath the gentle caress
certain to end as we began

Battle, Bob Sullivan

Manuscripts

Wet from the cold March rain, the white paint glistens fresh. It is almost as if the barn has been swept by a snowstorm of Elmer's Glue. In contrast to the radiant purity of this barn, the soil of the farm is a tiring alternation of milky gray and soggy brown. Tattered stubs of once-green corn cling to the ground in haggard remnants of narrow rows. Like the littered aftermath of Gettysburg, this land is hallowed--Mother Earth. The farmer sees himself as the victor. He has tamed the cycle with civilized plastic machinery.

Avatar, Mary Harter

Manuscripts

You see her in the supermarket every day. She wears size 14, stretch pants (that advertise plainly why she needs the stretch) and a matching print blouse. She wears them with tennis shoes.

A Child's Viewpoint, Alice Monds

Manuscripts

She beckoned to me, and with much apprehension I entered the door of the shabby unpainted house. Inside, the room was small and dark and almost the entire space was taken up by a big metal-framed bed which stuck out into the middle of the room. A ragged upholstered chair in one corner and a small pot-bellied stove in the other completed the furnishings. The windows, uncurtained, were filthy and one was covered with pieces of a cardboard box where the pane had been broken out.

The Surrender, Diane Hale

Manuscripts

Light revolves
patterning grey age faces
in flashing momentary brilliance--
exposing shadow dreams
of victorious kingdoms
built in bottle caps
the shrapnel of hope's treachery--
to be swept away with
debris of belief

The Hairy Arms Poem Or The Love Song Of J. Alfred Poofrock, Mary Harter

Manuscripts

I have encountered "The Love Song of J. Alfred Poofrock" in three different college English classes taught by three different teachers. They all agree that T. S. Eliot wrote the poem. On everything else they disagree.

Heat Lightning At Night, Michael Martone

Manuscripts

mute mimic,
the splashing spark

The Fine Art Of Ineptitude, Sue Winemiller

Manuscripts

Each of us knows at least one of them. They are perched before easels duplicating the spring's emerald meadows and the autumn's turbulent skies. Clad in leotards, they pirouette and pas de buerre their souls into the "Nutcracker Suite," while their colleagues entrance the audience with skill in the orchestra pit. Not content with a monopoly of the fine arts, their type is found fashioning Christmas angels from empty toilet paper rolls, making doll houses out of old cereal boxes, and whipping together gourmet dinners from cans of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup. I speak of my personal nemesis, the artist--one …

Definition Of Poetry, Lynn Z. Bloom

Manuscripts

Once
I took a course in aesthetics:
Three hours credit
If I could learn
What a poem was.

Untitled, Carol Thornton

Manuscripts

The ugly, hairless, pink snout was arched skyward, head trembling in weak defiance. Rivulets of creamy, yellow mucous flowed thickly from the unseeing eyes.

An Initiation (There Are No More Somedays...), Mike Swarzman

Manuscripts

"Come on son, today's the day we find the perfect piece of wood, strong, yet easy to carve--come on."

Scott refocused his eyes on his father who stood over his bed.

"Come on son, let's go."

The brown haired blur moved again, and Scott, full of expectation, dressed quickly and hurried to the door.

Front Matter

Manuscripts

Front matter includes: front cover, table of contents, and masthead.

Santa Clara Review, Vol. 102, No. 1, Santa Clara University

Santa Clara Review

No abstract provided.