Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Memory of a poem by August Kleinzahler" by Anna Livesey



There were two people (one in a blue dress).
They stood outside the ring the crowd made

around some spectacle

and spoke to each other.

It is not in the poem, but I think she folded her hands

in the skirt of her blue dress,

running the fabric between her fingers.

l think he touched her wrist, bare and white

in the light reflected from the spectacle.

They were behind the backs of several thousand people,

none of whom noticed them. Her wrist

looked very fine as it rose from the blue material.

Seeing the wrist, he was sorry for what he had said.

He said something else to her instead and she replied, quietly.

They made a small crowd of their own.



by Anna Livesey



For more information about the poet, Anna Livesey, see:



Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Tuesday Poem: Untitled by Yoshida Kenko


Blossoms are scattered by the wind
and the wind cares nothing,
but the blossoms of the heart
no wind can touch.

by Yoshida Kenko


For more information about the poet, Yoshida Kenko, see:




Photograph Credit: Leon Petrosyan 

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Places Becoming Lonely" by Andrew M. Bell






Not a name on a marquee,
but a firmament in which a star could shine

this solid Earth, dependable unless we forget
the hard lessons of gravity

understated, not showy, he knew the places
his eyes could take the audience

there are more of us now and they say
we are more visually literate

and the images multiply daily
and yet there are more

places becoming lonely

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "The United Fruit Co." by Pablo Neruda



When the trumpet sounded, everything
on earth was prepared

and Jehovah distributed the world

to Coca Cola Inc., Anaconda,

Ford Motors and other entities:

The Fruit Company Inc.

reserved the juiciest for itself,

the central coast of my land,

the sweet waist of America.

It re-baptized the lands

"Banana Republics"

and on the sleeping dead,

on the restless heroes

who'd conquered greatness,

liberty and flags,

it founded a comic opera:

it alienated free wills,

gave crowns of Caesar as gifts,

unsheathed jealousy, attracted

the dictatorship of the flies,

Trujillo flies, Tachos flies,

Carias flies, Martinez flies,

Ubico flies, flies soppy

with humble blood and marmelade,

drunken flies that buzz

around common graves,

circus flies, learned flies

adept at tyranny.

The Company disembarks

among the blood-thirsty flies,

brim-filling their boats that slide

with the coffee and fruit treasure

of our submerged lands like trays.

Meanwhile, along the sugared up

abysms of the ports,

indians fall over, buried

in the morning mist:

a body rolls, a thing

without a name, a fallen number,

a bunch of dead fruit

spills into the pile of rot.



by Pablo Neruda



For more information about the poet, Pablo Neruda, see: