January 2009
Poems by C.K. Williams, Kim Addonizio, Anne Winters; previously unpublished Langston Hughes, introduced by Arnold Rampersad; Michael Hofmann on Bishop and Lowell.Read the Issue >>
Each month the editors of Poetry magazine talk about the issue. Listen here to the most recent episode or browse the archive.Of All the Poems In the World, Why Would You Pick This One?
Previously unpublished poems by Langston Hughes, a preview of Michael Hofmann's essay on Lowell and Bishop—and a phone call to readers in Texas who don't like the poems in this month's issue!
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Poetry magazine senior editor Don Share recently wrote:
Some of the recent threads here talk about how poets will be able to make a living in this new bad economy. Well, there never was a strong connection between poetry and making a living, as my old man well knew. Just now there's not a lot of money in anything. But there is, there has to be, survival. And letting the mind wander is something we'll need more of now as we re-imagine our futures, and perhaps even our political and social circumstances. As for poetry, no doubt something of it will not only survive but be - dare I (day)dream it? - immortal, and limitless (as in, you know, "language without limit").
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Interested in discovering other ways to approach a poem? Have a look at our discussion guide for the December issue. Download PDF now? >>
I HateBy C. K. Williams
I hate how this unsummoned sigh-sound, sob-sound,
not sound really, feeling, sigh-feeling, sob-feeling,
keeps rising in me, rasping in me, not in its old disguise
as nostalgia, sweet crazed call of the blackbird;
not as remembrance, grief for so many gone,
nor either that other tangle of recall, regret
for unredeemed wrongs, errors, omissions,
petrified roots too deep to ever excise;
a mingling rather, a melding, inextricable mesh
of delight in astonishing being, of being in being,
with a fear of and fear for I can barely think what,
not non-existence, of self, loved ones, love;
not even war, fuck war, sighing for war,
sobbing for war, for no war, peace, surcease;
more than all that, some ground-sound, ground-note,
sown in us now, that swells in us, all of us,
echo of love we had, have, for world, for our world,
on which we seem finally mere swarm, mere deluge,
mere matter self-altered to tumult, to noise,
cacophonous blitz of destruction, despoilment,
din from which every emotion henceforth emerges,
and into which falters, slides, sinks, and subsides:
sigh-sound of lament, of remorse; sob-sound of rue,
of, still, always, ever sadder and sadder sad joy.
Read More from the Current Issue >>
The Linebacker and the DervishBy Michael Hofmann
"This is the poet as house plant, as aspirin-munching studio beast, as day-for-night alice band. Lowell is the linebacker-turned-pasha as poet, Bishop is the lifelong dervish."
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