DPF / Cherry

This one’s from Puerto del Sol, Spring 1999. Lovely to share an issue with this poet. I will pretend that a rain poem is like a rain dance, and I will consider it successful if our valley sees rain any time in the next month. I hear that the total rainfall for this region these past twelve months is lower than it’s ever been in recorded history. Here’s a bit more:

from Rain Storm / by Nancy Cherry

imagines lichens rising as he passes
the receiver to the other hand as if

DPF / MacNeice

This one’s from The Norton Anthology of Poetry, 4th Edition, ed. by Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy (1970). The end word in many of the lines of this poem becomes a harbinger for the first word in the next line where some of its letters and sounds are echoed. More here on MacNeice:

from The Sunlight on the Garden / by Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells

DPF / Spacks

Any day is a good day for myth making. This one’s from Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, and Drama, 3rd Edition, ed. by XJ Kennedy (1983). More here:


from Teaching the Penguins to Fly / by Barry Spacks (1931-2014)

it’s nothing like easy to start them moving;
she’ll leap and flap her arms to teach
the big idea

DPF / Keniston

This one’s from the Antioch Review, Winter 1988, Vol. 56, Number 1. One of my poems is in this issue as well. Lovely to share a space with her! More here at her blog:

from Matter and Spirit / by Ann Keniston

      Wouldn’t anyone prefer to dwell
beyond the last outpost of the represented word

DPF / Pasternak

One thing I’ve noticed in attempting not to repeat anyone until I can’t take not going back to Berryman, for one example, is that the number of poets in the world, those here and those here only in print, will continue to exceed the days with new poets appearing daily. Russian Nobel laureate Pasternak, of course, is not one of these “new poets,” but as Alice Fulton’s quote goes, “It will be new//whether you make it new/or not.” This one’s from his Penguin Selected Poems (1983). More here:

from The Weeping Garden / by Boris Pasternak (1890–1960) translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France

It’s terrible: dripping and listening
If it’s as much alone as ever —