By Alice Oswald
It's a rush, a sploosh of sewage, twenty thousand cubic metres being pumped in, stirred and settled …
Explore Poems: Town & Country Life
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- By Remica Bingham-RisherBut for the grace of God
one might begin and
this must be the life of a woman. I will barely touch the… - By Isabel Duarte-GraySunday we lay hands
on a girl of ten hand on hand on
cornsilk hair. We sing
the secret language sung
the day the tin roof of the tower beat
on God’s floorboard
he got cramp in heaven.
Like our crying and our
fornicating so close to his... - By Benjamin GucciardiWe lived in a stone farmhouse at the edge of town.
I’d been assigned to process asylum claims
and you’d come to write about the abandoned homes
in the island’s interior the government was selling cheap.
A family of barn swallows lived inside our... - By Anna TomlinsonSauerkraut festival, sauerkraut ice cream from a tiny paper cup.
Places you could get lost in. Bike path that wound by the old airport,
abandoned playground with its huddle of bouncy animals
on their oversized springs. In the slough, Doritos bags
flashed from the... - By John TickhillTranslated By Eric WeiskottIn springtime, chief of all seasons,
in May when new joys rise and flourish,
the sun is lord and messenger at once and sends down to us
to rouse our bodies and be merry:
humankind to... - By William BlakeSweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men & Maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue:
“An Angel is here from the heavenly Climes,
Or again does return... - By Tracy K. Smith200 cows more than 600 hilly acres
property would have been even larger
had J not sold 66 acres to DuPont for
waste from its Washington Works factory
where J was employed
... - By Bruce SniderShe lip-syncs “Hello God,” then “9 to 5.”
She struts. Or does she fly? Like the soul,
a rhinestone, she tells us, will never die.
She’s a blush-pink Bible. Patched together,
she’s a cosmic doll. Mirror of a mirror,
she winks, her face the only... - By Tristan TzaraTranslated By Heather Greenthen the clouds rolled in
young is the night that is to say
a cellophane softness ensued
which blew across the sky like wisps of straw
their firearms—a job well done
young is the night
and when the circus tent begins to blaze
beneath the eyes speak... - By CAConradGrowing up in a rural factory town I watched my creative family extend the grind oft monotonous jobs outside the factory walls and into their lives until they were no longer capable of accessing their artistic abilities. The factory essentially...
- By Osip MandelstamToo black, too much indulged, living in clover,
all little withers, all air, all charity,
all crumbling, all massing in a choir—
damp clods of soil, my land and liberty...
With early plowing it is black to blueness,
and unarmed labor here is glorified—
a thousand... - By RK FauthTake me to the holler.
I want to see the cows
Big Mamaw’s grave and
something about tobacco fields.
I don’t recall all you said at Barley’s, but you
introduced yourself with an anecdote
about toothbrushes made from
chewed-up willow branches and
coyotes loping along a
wooded backyard—Uncle Clark’s
and... - By Daye PhillippoI have learned to love turning a bar of soap
and the calendar’s empty pages in my hands,
soft lather that soothes, feels like ritual, lifts away
things I don’t need. I have learned to love
the chickens’ ways, the hesitating way they walk
like... - By Pablo OtavaloIn midsentence. Like a pregnant sow
in another mud- and mire-laden trench,
your hay-stuffed midland rests. In mid-crossing:
a locomotive humming through a hymn
on Sunday morning. This is west of Eden.
Vacant field, vacant lots,
and elms holding back the wind.
Across the river, along the... - By Tina Mozelle BrazielMy first trip, I scoured every floor
of the MoMA, winding around other patrons
before they could read “Alabama” on my tee.
I lingered over Birthday’s lovers
levitating into kiss, then moved as if driven
until I found, unreal and gleaming,
an Airstream. I made myself... - By Donald HallDecember, and the closing of the year;
The momentary carolers complete
Their Christmas Eves, and quickly disappear
Into their houses on each lighted street.
Each car is put away in each garage;
Each husband home from work, to celebrate,
Has closed his house around him like... - By Vievee FrancisI want to put down what the mountain has awakened.
My mouthful of grass.
My curious tale. I want to stand still but find myself moved patch by patch.
There's a bleat in my throat. Words fail me here. Can you understand? I... - By Aigerim Tazhifrom resurrection to sunday
we cross off dates on the calendar
waiting for salvation
it comes in the form of mountain air
in the gas chamber of a city
silvery ants
drag along up to the stone height
rub against steel sides
itching
tracks left on the neck from... - By Tyree DayeThis where all the roadside memorials are,
pink wreaths and dirty teddy bears.
This where a man walked when he wanted to fly.
This is where he lay down and later died.
This where the train...