Charles Hughes
En plein air, September
This bus stop in late sun—
Bench, narrow, backless, low,
In black-framed kiosk, all
Metal and plexiglass,
All sides enclosed but one—
Today turns studio
...
Praying for eyes to see
They say: “These are useless sacrifices. These men will perish, but the
structure of life will remain the same.” Even thus, I think, people spoke
...
Tracy K. Smith’s lovely, unflinching poems
Smith is acutely aware of injustice and violence—and remarkably hopeful about the possibility of reconciliation.
New year’s geese
El Niño winter. January. Geese
Fly high above this still suburban street,
So high I hear their cries, then have to strain
To see them—not a V—dark flecks of ink
...
The widowed professor’s new purpose
His lectures that he likes best
Usually concern Camus.
Each year, he does La Peste,
Which wasn’t always true.
Paradox at the heart of poetry
The Still Pilgrim—seemingly Angela Alaimo O'Donnell's alter ego—reflects joy and longing.
Worm under the sun
A nightcrawler has found itself marooned,
Surrounded unexpectedly by sidewalk.
Night rain caused it to move (as earthworms do)
Up to the surface, then across slick grass,
Christmas poem
This house I have stands deep,
Dimensionless in me.
Here I can sing and weep.
Here God can come to be.
The bees, etc., one Sunday afternoon in July
There are more urgent things to do than dig
Around thirteen astilbe plants. But I’ve
Had all my sins forgiven. Pinks and reds
Clarify in the sun. Bees whirligig...
A sad story (told by an elderly lawyer about a client) prompts a prayer
He saw his parents killed. Their car.
A 7-Up truck full of glass
Bottles. An icy underpass.
A scene everyone knew would scar—
Something the jury had to count...