January 2009
Poems by C.K. Williams, Kim Addonizio, Anne Winters; previously unpublished Langston Hughes, introduced by Arnold Rampersad; Michael Hofmann on Bishop and Lowell.Read the Issue >>
Each month the editors of Poetry magazine talk about the issue. Listen here to the most recent episode or browse the archive.Of All the Poems In the World, Why Would You Pick This One?
Previously unpublished poems by Langston Hughes, a preview of Michael Hofmann's essay on Lowell and Bishop—and a phone call to readers in Texas who don't like the poems in this month's issue!
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Poetry magazine senior editor Don Share recently wrote:
Some of the recent threads here talk about how poets will be able to make a living in this new bad economy. Well, there never was a strong connection between poetry and making a living, as my old man well knew. Just now there's not a lot of money in anything. But there is, there has to be, survival. And letting the mind wander is something we'll need more of now as we re-imagine our futures, and perhaps even our political and social circumstances. As for poetry, no doubt something of it will not only survive but be - dare I (day)dream it? - immortal, and limitless (as in, you know, "language without limit").
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Interested in discovering other ways to approach a poem? Have a look at our discussion guide for the December issue. Download PDF now? >>
EremiteBy Scott Cairns
—Katounakia, 2007
The cave itself is pleasantly austere,
with little clutter—nothing save
a narrow slab, a threadbare woolen wrap,
and in the chipped-out recess here
three sooty icons lit by oil lamp.
Just beyond the dim cave's aperture,
a blackened kettle rests among the coals,
whereby, each afternoon, a grip
of wild greens is boiled to a tender mess.
The eremite lies prostrate near
two books—a gospel and the Syrian's
collected prose—whose pages turn
assisted by a breeze. Besides the thread
of wood smoke rising from the coals,
no other motion takes the eye. The old
man's face is pressed into the earth,
his body stretched as if to reach ahead.
The pot boils dry. He feeds on what
we do not see, and may be satisfied.
Read More from the Current Issue >>
Who Needs to Hear A Quagga’s Voice?By Daisy Fried
"This isn't your standard alas-the-endangered-owl poem, trying too hard to pull the heartstrings."
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