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Recent events have highlighted what a solace poetry can be in troubled times.
Last week, we spoke to Pacific Northwest poet Scott Poole who read us the poem, “To Run-A Prayer for Boston” (read the poem and hear the interview here). Boston poet Nick Flynn also wrote a poem the night of the marathon bombing.
Our friend Lloyd Schwartz, who’s an accomplished poet and a professor of English at the University of Massachusetts Boston, tells us that he’s been approached at events by people who tell him that they need music and poetry even more now.
Schwartz is a regular commentator for NPR’s “Fresh Air,” and recently published a book of his reviews “Music In–and On–the Air.”
He shares some of his favorite new poets. You can read one poem from each of them below (click on the name to link to the poem):
Do you have a favorite poem or poet? Tell us on Facebook.
This poem originally appeared in The Threepenny Review (Fall 2012) and will be in Andrea Cohen’s forthcoming poetry collection “Furs Not Mine” (Four Way Books). Reprinted with permission from the author. All rights reserved.
The Committee Weighs In
I tell my mother
I’ve won the Nobel Prize.
Again? she says. Which
discipline this time?
It’s a little game
we play: I pretend
Reprinted with permission from the author. All rights reserved.
As long as you want
almost never is
as long as you want,
or it is much longer.
He will not live
as long as you want
but his forgetfulness
will last as long as memory,
as long as you. Want,
at once desire and privation,
is the work of his disease.
As long as you want
him, you return to watch hours
unravel. Are they hard as yours,
as long? As you want
This poem originally appeared in David Gewanter’s poetry book, “The Sleep of Reason.” Reprinted with permission from the author. All rights reserved.
for my sister.
Your “x,” withdrawn, vengeful,
undertakes the spousal
rip-off. Quivering passion,
once negated, murders love—
is how greed frames
This poem originally appeared in the literary journal Salamander. Reprinted with permission from the author. All rights reserved.Some Days Begin Like This
The fear of forgetting I am well
crawls into my mouth like a word
that regrets being spoken;
it presses sour phrases against
my teeth, tongue, and gums.
I want to tell it stop,
that I am well,
that my blood is my blood.
But as I’m ready to swallow,
it wedges another phrase
onto the back of my tongue—
something about the flawlessness
of the antibody’s memory,
how it never forgets
the image of the mother
that abandoned it here.
This poem originally appeared in “The Helen Burns Poetry Anthology: New Voices (Vol. 9).” Reprinted with permission from the author. Copyright 2009 by Nathan Gamache. All rights reserved.
Blesséd are the looters
who place their fists through abandoned glass
and reach around to find the lock. Blesséd
are the looters, every Creole soul, blacks and whites
alike, though one reads that he is stealing, while
the other is said to be stealing back his life.
Blesséd are those who will not wait to be saved.
Blesséd are those who rummage to find vehicles,
then back up stolen goods into the thirsty crowds,
who let anyone who is thirsty, drink; let whoever
is hungry, eat. Let whoever can steal for others, steal.
Blesséd are those who understand, any possession is
an act of theft, just as any love comes from former love.
Blesséd are those who call from full hospital balconies,
Give us your baby, knowing we are all someone’s baby.
Blesséd are those who will not wait to be saved, who
swim in the streets, cross the bridge, save us from ourselves.