Perhaps my need to appear/ happy at all times comes from a fear/ of my true thoughts and desires.
Will some lightly clapping hands remain/ in places where death walked through?
The house is endless only in its emptiness, so vast/ there seemed trapped the wind itself.
Ritvo refuses to wade with us in our fruitless investigation of life's meaning. Instead, he gives us poetry: affirming, beautiful, and mortal.
Translations from Arabic by Ali Znaidi of Asma Jelassi's "The Metamorphosed" and Widad Nabi's "This Place is Lit With Memory."
Ada Limón discusses how self-reliance makes you a better writer, silencing outside influences to prevent mimicry, and "the gathering time."
There is nothing, then menacing red, then/nothing again.
how can you be lonely/ when the offices lights/ shine into your room from/ across the river.
Ants announce spring from the corners of the house,/their neat swarms quiet and inevitable./The bleeding heart is back.
Is that the way it is/ three stars from a .32 burning/ right down your boulevard.
Forough Farrokhzad was one of Iran's most influential poets. This poem has been translated from Farsi by Sogol Sur.
When my mother said the word divorce in response to my asking where my father was—after she’d said, he won’t be back.