Category: Poetry
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In this dream. You are a painting by Thomas Hart Benton with luxurious black hair and beautiful pale white skin Asleep. An old hillbilly a mid-west aging Pluto attempts to touch you, looks at you from around the corner in awe and sublime wonder and its obvious and plain to see that he is complete…
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These days Everyone Calls themselves A writer But unless You have spent Most of your life Searching for The perfect words Unless you have lost Hours, years & moments Of sleep, unless you have Stalked, loved every image In your mind and…
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From the wreckage And the great unknown Come I, Cast back unto it Again From beneath, the mire of All good works Which once wrought heaven, You, closer to thyself And…thy sight. The poet Now lost Without words Cast in shadows From the edge of stars “Silence.” __________________ ~ R.M. Engelhardt,…
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How did the most visible poet in America—and a father of the Beats—become nearly forgotten? Vachel Lindsay Photograph by Victor George. To readers who have enjoyed these monthly “Classic Poem” discussions: In order to keep them going while not driving the poetry editor over the edge and at the same time to introduce some…
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Sophie Podolski (8 October 1953 – 29 December 1974) was a Belgian poet and graphic artist. She published only one book during her short lifetime, Le pays où tout est permis (The Country Where Everything Is Permitted), in which the poems were reproduced in her own artistic handwriting. Podolski, studied graphic design at the Académie de…
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I don’t claim to understand the troubles that you’ve had. But the dogs you say they fed you to lay their muzzles in your lap and the lions that they led you to lie down and take a nap. The ones you fear are wind and air… and I love you without measure… it seems…
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Writing is beauty and beauty is writing ~ R.M. Engelhardt
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Happy Birthday To Archibald MacLeish Ars Poetica Archibald MacLeish A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown— A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds. * A poem…
