August Again

The start of folklore season with some of the best poems I've read recently

Happy new August, or just mediocre new August, whichever you prefer. I have vague publishing news which I cannot share yet, and Flat Ink Issue No. 2 is on the way, but for now here’s some poems for the start of another fall semester. They’re a bit melancholy, which seemed fitting for this time of year. I hope you all have many cafe dates and nice walks in your future, and I hope you find something you like in these poems.

American Sonnet with a Line by Van Gogh By Jasmine Khaliq

I stood within a room of wheat projected:

all walls floor ceiling ears sheaves faces bodies

my real body wheat breathing crow underfoot

and overhead brush me and bring me

into being—if one hasn’t a horse

one is one own’s horse, he wrote—all my work

to set my horses loose, and they refuse to leave

Both the horses and the voice remind me so strongly of Ada Limón in the best way possible. People on twitter were complaining about poems where the poet writes about a painting then pivots to themselves but I could read 1,000 more of these.

They Say Loss Can Touch Another Loss By Mónica Gomery

It’s the bird of you in the south of me. Your wing making that long cut into my cheek. All day we labored around her death, put our hands in it rustled it around. The bed was not yet soil. The bruises not yet cold along her arm where it had fallen.

‘It’s the bird of you in the south of me’ was enough to stun me. I have yet to read the next one, but it was sent to me by Shay, a very dear friend of mine, and I trust her judgement.

What to Eat, What to Drink, and What to Leave for Poison By Camille T. Dungy

From the poplar’s grail, wine spray. Crab apple

brightens jealously to compete. But by

the crab apple’s deep stain, the tulip tree

learns modesty. Only blush, poplar learns,

lightly. Never burn such a dark-hued fire

to the core.

Then: Unlove Poem by Franny Choi

I’m distance-skinned. No one can put a story inside me

but me. If not even my memories love me enough to stay,

then fine, cut off the hands that keep me married

to any history.

The poem becomes a prayer somewhere down the line, or starts that way while disguising itself. If you needed an excuse to read yet another diaspora/female lineage poem, this is me explicitly telling you to read it.

Because Aren’t We All Just Learning to Feel Loved By R.L. Wheeler

You painted and painted.

Pointed and urged the horses to look, look.

K, when I say I wish I were better

at accepting kindness, what I mean

is I can see the pasture now. I can see it

and all that open grass.

Something about this reminds me of the cathedral short story— I have no idea what it’s called, but the one about the wife’s blind colleague coming over for dinner. Weirdly enough, I know that will make perfect sense to my intended audience, so I won’t elaborate. It’s surprised at its own compassion, while filling all its memories with it in hindsight.

Anyway, here’s to the start of fall semester, may it not be as brutal as it could be. More than that, here’s to writing a novel again :)