Archive for Poetry


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on May 13, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

The Current (a poem by Raymond Carver)

These fish have no eyes
these silver fish that come to me in dreams,
scattering their roe and milt
in the pockets of my brain.

But there’s one that comes–
heavy, scarred, silent like the rest,
that simply holds against the current,

closing its dark mouth against
the current, closing and opening
as it holds to the current.



Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on May 12, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Them (a poem by C. X. Hunter)

I stole anything useless
made my lair in the basement
diddled in the junk
on the floor in the closet
listened to show tunes
on a wooden radio
licked the dust from the windows
hid from the crow
hid from the bluebird
imagined bugs in the plumbing
dreaded the ring
of a big black telephone
feared I might be related
to a family of monsters
went without sleep for
fourteen years


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on May 8, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Fidelity (a poem by Mark Halliday)

The things we could do
with certain lovely others
are weapons we keep loaded
or at least near the ammo box
in a drawer behind socks,
there to pull out and polish occasionally
as at a party or dinner
when a smile or drifting fingertip
whispers richly of imaginable beds–
our brandishing when it’s right
being a truly amorous blood-quickener,
a way of saying It’s all for you, my beauty,
and don’t you forget it.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on May 4, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Hive (a poem by Nick Flynn)

What would you do inside me?
You would be utterly

lost, labyrinthine.

comb, each corridor identical, a
funhouse, there, a bridge, worker

knit to worker, a span
you can’t cross. On the other side

the queen, a fortune of honey.

Once we filled an entire house with it,
built the comb between floorboard

& joist, slowly at first, the constant

buzz kept the owners awake, then
louder, until honey began to seep

from the walls, swell
the doorframes. Our gift.

They had to burn the house down
to rid us.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on May 3, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Aubade On East 12th Street (a poem by August Kleinzahler)

The skylight silvers
and a faint shudder from the underground
travels up the building’s steel.

Dawn breaks across this wilderness
of roofs with their old wooden storage tanks
and caps of louvered cowlings

moving in the wind. Your back,
raised hip and thigh
well-tooled as a rounded baluster

on a lathe of shadow and light.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on May 2, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Until the day I will return (an untitled poem by Cesar Vallejo, as translated by Clayton Eshleman and Jose Rubia Barcia)

Until the day I will return, from this stone
my definitive heel will be born,
with its set of crimes, its ivy,
its dramatic stubbornness, its olive tree.

Until the day I will return, continuing,
with the frank uprightness of a bitter cripple,
my periplus, from well to well, I understand
that man will have to be good, notwithstanding.

Until the day I will return and until
the animal I am walks, among his judges,
our brave little finger will be big,
dignified, an infinite finger among fingers.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on May 1, 2008 by Ryan Sanford Smith

Aviators (a poem by Jon Anderson)

We learned, and slowly, only
that we fell in the high spiral

of confusion. The millionth run–
and now our lives unwound.

Well, we had always had bright flak at heart.
And when we stalled our bomber under

the new moon, and emerged–who could have known?
In that music dangle jukebox angels

fed us their sweet compassionate bread.
Our bellies grew round as the red moon,

and we starved. Who could survive
desire? They have wired

our wild hearts for sound. We are falling down
forever toward your blue receding town.