Sunday, March 28, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
SLEEP POURS IN…’
Sleep pours in on the Polish hills,
an arm grabs a golden stamp.
A squirrel dies in a bag.
A cricket flies over a clearing.
We know where the sword of the brave is from.
The mutation of the eye is the secret.
The lion, which falls on its face, bends the little girl.
Red blood spurts.
‘THE GAME IS DEATH…’
The game is death. Husk before death.
In euphoria there are the blackest flowers.
‘YOU ARE MY ANGEL’
You are my angel.
Mouth strewn with chalk.
I am the servant of the ritual.
White mushrooms in a white field.
In a plain of fire.
I walk on gold dust.
Translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry. "Fountain," "'The game is death...'" and "'You are my angel'" from Sonet o Mleku (Sonnet on Milk), 63, 30, and 26, respectively.
Tomaž Šalamun has published more than 37 books of poetry in Slovenia and 11 books in English. His many honors include the Preseren Fund Prize, a visiting Fulbright to Columbia University, and a fellowship to the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. He also has served as Cultural Attaché to the Slovenian Consulate in New York. His poetry has been translated into more than 20 languages around the world. Woods and Chalices, translated by Brian Henry, appeared from Harcourt in 2008.
Brian Henry's sixth book, Wings Without Birds, will appear from Salt Publishing in April 2010.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
There are gaskets inside us, turning movie reels. In the box office, two nights ago, I had meant to say, I collected all your pictures and hung them inside my head. Without further attention this amounts to: I won’t ever have to look at an image of you, in order to imagine you. This is the same feeling as standing really close to a tree and smelling its bark. There is one bird’s nest close to my house, made of hair and Coney Island salt. Someone should tell the island they worship that they are coming home. I am looking past myself. Past the point of batting the air.
I think lying down, sorta in the light but also among beautiful objects spinning around. I don’t want to recycle anything. I would never let go of a balloon.
Paige Taggart lives in Brooklyn. Her chapbook Polaroid Parade is forthcoming with Greying Ghost Press. She has an e-chapbook, Won't Be A Girl with Scantily Clad Press. She's a 2009 recipient of the New York Foundation of the Art’s grant. More poems from To People Who Sometimes Read can be found or are forthcoming in Raleigh Quarterly, Sink Review, No Tell Motel, pax americana, Glitterpony. Check out her blog: http://
Monday, March 08, 2010
Monday, March 01, 2010
Bring me my spring cups,
fill them with thrum, with spring
crocus, hailstorm, foxglove.
Bring me those purple flowers
on tall spikes, drooping
and tubular, no—
bring me the nectar.
Let the cups be contrived
of white petal,
of coma-inducing digitalis medicine.
Put the jewel heist
in my spring cups.
Retching on the clover,
the clover comes
from THE JUNE CUCKOLD
Shitty sun my own kind
You hate to touch it
Until you do
The Insects in the Insect Trees
Catherine Theis is the author of The Fraud of Good Sleep (SUN SUN SUN Press), and her new poems are forthcoming in Action Yes, LIT, Sonora Review, Volt, and New Pony: A Horse Less Anthology (horse less press). She is the recipient of a 2009 Individual Artists Fellowship from the Illinois Arts Council.