Poem: Night In The Gardens Of Port Of Spain

Night In The Gardens Of Port Of Spain Derek Walcott     Night, the black summer, simplifies her smells into a village; she assumes the impenetrable musk of the negro, grows secret as sweat, her alleys odorous with shucked oyster shells, coals of gold oranges, braziers...

Poem: Forgotten

A Final word The note in my pocket says, politicize my death. Rip me out of passive tense the way I was from this place: with a bang. Executions don’t just happen. See how complicit you are. Show me you’ve learned something. Pay attention, it says, to the...
Poem: If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda

Poem: If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda

I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that...
On Writing: Where And How I Write

On Writing: Where And How I Write

I read something today that really surprised me. The brilliant Kris Rusch wrote that some writers cannot write on planes. This surprised me, because I’ve never been one of those writers who just writes in a certain location or a certain environment. Sure,...
Poem: Bumblebees Are Made of Ash

Poem: Bumblebees Are Made of Ash

Bumblebees Are Made of Ash Martha Silano (@marthasilano in Thrush Literary Journal) The day is a dragonfly hovering in the Timothy. It could rain for months before the sun goes down. An orange buoy bobs while a sparrow sings through a wall. The world smells of cedar,...