Poem of The Day
By Khari Dawson
mom tells me I smell like
her Mom—
something flowery and 

the blackened endings
of a joint.
I feared her blotchy wrath

that sometimes showed itself
and others 
slept like something

without a hippocampus.
This time she possesses no rage.
Only hurt about the lie.

She’d say of me, 
if asked:
I hold my things tight 

to my chest
till it’s only half …
Audio Of The Day
By Unknown tr. by Rachel Linn
Poem of The Day
By Shara McCallum
When the dead return
they will come to you in dream
and in waking, will be the bird
knocking, knocking…
Poem of The Day
By Martha Silano
Is this the last time I’ll admire the guys
in their neon-yellow slickers, guiding us
to our parking spots before we head up
 two flights to the passenger deck,
to the cafeteria where a man in a black derby
and black suspenders nods and smiles
 as he nibbles popcorn? In honor of this maybe
last trip to San Juan Island, the last time
I hear…

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Featured Poetic Term

Glossary Terms
A figurative compound word that takes the place of an ordinary noun. Many kennings rely on myths or legends to make meaning and are found in Old Germanic, Norse, and English poetry, including The Seafarer, in which the ocean is called a “whale-path.” (See Ezra Pound’s translation). “The Oven Bird” by Robert Frost also includes examples such as “mid-wood” and “petal-fall.” The speaker in Frank Bidart’s poem, “The Third Hour of the Night,” mentions a creature referred to as the “wound-dresser.”  See…

Poem Guides

From the Poetry Magazine Archive

  • Poem
    By Kimiko Hahn
    Without the sun filtered through closed eyelids,
    without the siren along the service road,

    without Grandpa’s ginger-colored hair,
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    firecrackers, a monkey’s ass, a cherry, Rei’s lost elephant,
    without communist or past tense,

    or a character seeing her own chopped-off feet dancing...
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    By Elizabeth Acevedo
    it’s the being alone, i think, the emails but not voices. dominicans be funny, the way we love to touch — every greeting a cheek kiss, a shoulder clap, a loud.

    it gots to be my period, the bloating, the insurance commercial where...
  • Poem
    By Cortney Lamar Charleston
    By way of my mother, the deacon with the slick gray hair and money
    clip in his pocket can claim a percentage of my body like tithe rights.
    And on this Sunday, as with every other Sunday, he is a slender
    ebony panel...

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