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theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v2-alexander.html

The American Journal of Poetry. The children lie down for a nap, doing anything but. The one with bright baubles in her hair. Twists and squirms; she is already suffering for beauty's sake. The children hiss don't touch me, you're touching me. Their teacher arranges paper and paint,. A cartoon of the deep, what flits and feeds within. Though they all thrill to octopus and shark,. Few have toed the ocean sand, or carved its isinglass. The afternoon's game is touch without being seen,. No, the arm. Young A...

theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v2-altman.html

The American Journal of Poetry. I wake each morning to spokes of light flaring across. The Rio Grande Valley. Another post-modern day in Indian country. Casinos, as if steel mills, run a third shift, to meet sunrise,. While hardscrabble farms pray for water and electricity,. And Los Alamos leaches onto rez land artifacts of early atomic wonder. I am the sole white, the outsider, dodging beach chairs and coolers. My otherness loses itself in the leather-throated chorus of elders,. Santa Fe Literary Review.

theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v2-axelrod.html

The American Journal of Poetry. May and July, the Dog Days. And now this dry October. Among the tribal stones,. So many of us lying here. Auslander, Radetsky,. Benjamin, Goodman, Weil. Three thousand and thirty. In all and as of today,. In our time and before,. Plus you youngest-most-gentle,. Three thousand and thirty-one. Whom He maketh lie down. In henbit and bitter cress. Alongside the Highland Canal. And constant hiss of mid-day. Traffic on Alemeda, mourning. Between the limbs of ashes. A little sip ...

theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v2-baugher.html

The American Journal of Poetry. Janée J. Baugher. Larceny, littering, loitering, loan-sharking. Disturbing the peace: porridge hot, porridge cold. Disorderly conduct, rudeness, and moodiness. Aggravated assault, a pepper, battery and charger. Stalking, harassing, kidnapping: little Bo Peep. Aiding and abetting, public nudity all round the mulberry bush. Extortionist, abortionist: baa baa black sheep. Crime of passion, crime of buggery: one, two, buckle my shoe. 2017 The American Journal of Poetry.

theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v2-bart.html

The American Journal of Poetry. It's gonna work this time. The die-cast promise of metal signs. Above the two porcelain basins. Made us forget it never worked before. I twisted the chrome handle until. My hand gave out waiting for a taste. Of blue or to see an arc of orange. All we ever got was a dribble. Of plain water from the corroded spigot. Some kept trying, but most kids. Knew the sign was wrong;. All water was the same. Oet Lore, Slipstream, San Pedro River Review, Cattlemen and Cadillacs.

theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/a-staff.html

The American Journal of Poetry. Founder, Publisher, Editor and Chief. In 2000 Robert Nazarene founded the critically acclaimed poetry review MARGIE / IntuiT House Poetry Series, which published the winning volume of the National Book Critics Circle award in poetry for 2006. His poems appear in. AGNI, Iowa Review, The Journal of the American Medical Association, The London Magazine, Ploughshares, Salmagundi. And elsewhere. He is the author of two collections:. Empire de la Mort. Managing Editor / IT Editor.

theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v2-allen_d.html

The American Journal of Poetry. Poem with Phrases of Three Other Poems and Words From a Few Songs Embedded in It. An admonition for would-be suicides. Day by day, she said, day by day,. That’s how you get through. You look at pictures of wisteria. In a Japanese calendar,. You take a single spoonful of chocolate ice cream. And turn it upside down on your tongue,. You close your eyes for a minute. And think of a long road crossing Kansas. One hour in the day by day,. Don’t Know Why. Another hour,. Always, ...

theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v2-atkinson.html

The American Journal of Poetry. Little Song on Hiroshima Day. I went to steal song from the trees. The war left untended. Under the morning cloud sky. I remember the blue foggy-skinned. Fruit like little mute bells. Among the ringing cicadas. Their wings like glass their eyes. The ringing song stopped. When the sun exploded I thought the sun exploded. To own a song to keep. To hang outside my window. In a bamboo cage. The green wands split and soaked to weave. A little cloud house where a song. She is on...

theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v2-allen_k.html

The American Journal of Poetry. The tortoise shell maps every star. No bull knows the thickness of its own rough horn. Some. Blue jays steal only the scarecrow’s left foot, and like us,. He is left leaning too far against husks. There is a war. In the attic. Hounds’ jaws lining baseboards,. Silk windless in every corner, hemming. Shut what we leave open each winter. Disregard bundled egrets. We know better. Than to trust feathers or beaks in tessellation. The zodiac is a tablature you pocket for storms.

theamericanjournalofpoetry.com

The American Journal of Poetry

http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v2-alcantara.html

The American Journal of Poetry. Jose A. Alcantara. I did not know childhood was a spell. And that one day the incantation would wear off,. That all the princes would turn back into frogs,. That the rabbit would jump back into the black depths. Of an even blacker hat, that someday, somebody. Would drop the crystal ball, and from then on I would walk. Barefoot, pulling shards from the soles of my feet. But after the scarred years, comes a time of white magic,. Singing spells from the belly of the pond.