by Anna Akhmatova Translated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz Here is my gift， not roses on your grave， not sticks of burning incense. You lived aloo...
by W. H. Auden When there are so many we shall have to mourn， when grief has been made so public， and exposed to the critique of a whole epoch the fra...
by W. H. Auden I He disappeared in the dead of winter： The brooks were frozen， the airports almost deserted， And snow disfigured the public statues； T...
by Carl Dennis Today as we walk in Paris I promise to focus More on the sights before us than on the woman We noticed yesterday in the photograph at t...
by Orlando González Esteva Scribbles are the lianas of the forest of our selves. Clinging to them， the primate still in us frolics free. Knotti...
by Mary Szybist Flashing in the grass； the mouth of a spider clung to the dark of it： the legs of the spider held the tucked wings close， held the abd...
by Wanda Coleman we were never caught we partied the southwest， smoked it from L.A. to El Dorado worked odd jobs between delusions of escape drunk on ...
by Ralph Burns He continues to ponder And his wife moves next to him. She looks. They look at themselves Looking through the fog. She has a meeting sh...
by David Dodd Lee It begins early， arc crumbling over the yard with its salt bird baths. Then you dream of the banister gleaming， your hand from atop ...
by Wendy Mnookin I saw them making out， Sheila whispers from the stall next to mine. We're standing， hidden from each other on opposite sides of t...