For the rain and for Jessica, from Poetry Magazine: The Translation Issue, November 2014. More here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/248974
from The Museum / by Yves Bonnefoy, translated by Mary Ann Caws
For the rain and for Jessica, from Poetry Magazine: The Translation Issue, November 2014. More here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/248974
from The Museum / by Yves Bonnefoy, translated by Mary Ann Caws
For the sea, from Poetry, November 2014, The Translation Issue.
from Sea Sickness / by Ilya Kutik, translated by Reginald Gibbons and the author
What’s left of my battles and my turmoil
is in my seaside cabin
For horses, from Poetry, November 2014. An Irish poem from The Translation Issue.
from Switch / by Seán Ó Ríordáin
the two, too-big eyes that were speechless with sorrow
For heroes of every kind, from Poetry Foundation.
from In The Cannery the Porpoise Soul / by Juan Felipe Herrera
the mayor is waiting/counting scales
For native fields, from APR, November/December 2014.
from The Rewilding / by Ada Limón
I don’t want to be only the landscape: the bone’s buried.
For elderly couples, from American Poets, Fall – Winter 2014.
from Splitting an Order / by Ted Kooser
and then to wait, offering the plate to his wife
From The American Poetry Review, November/December 2014.
from With Deborah in Amherst / by Stanley Plumly
It’d been a hard cold year, snow on snow
piled up roof – high
For fireflies, from an Irish poet born the same year as my/our mother, and from A Book of Luminous Things, edited by Czeslaw Milosz.
from Woman At Lit Window / by Eamon Grennan b. 1941
among the trees, a host of fireflies
in fragrant silence and native ease
One last one for the children of October, from An Eyeball in My Garden, edited by Jennifer Cole Judd and Laura Wyncoop.
from Winking Wot Warning / by Debra Leith
The Wots I’ve seen are three feet high,
With pointed feet turned toward the sky.
Really, no Carson yet? This one’s from The Best of the Best American Poetry, 1988-1997, edited by Harold Bloom. More on the poet here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/anne-carson
from Hölderlin Town / by Anne Carson b. 1950
You are mad to mourn alone.
With the wells gone dry.
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