american poets

new york state of mind

~ jama ~ 22 Comments

“Where thou art, that is home.” ~ Emily Dickinson

They say you can’t go home again. I’m not so sure.

Hope you brought your umbrella. 🙂

“New York City Walking in the Rain” by Vishalandra M. Dakur.
HOME
by Natalie Goldberg

I am thinking of the rain in New York
the driving rain over the Metropolitan Museum
and the Guggenheim and the small delicatessen
down in the Village that sells flanken
I am thinking of the rain making rivers by the curb
near Ohrbach’s and Penn Station
the shop selling pita sandwiches
the grease and char of lamb
rotating slowly in the raining day

I am thinking of the fruit stands now
the five hundred fruit stands all over New York
I’m thinking mostly of the dark celery leaves
above the green stalks and the bright skins of oranges
I am thinking of Macy’s meat department
And the Nebraska cows
Of the hundred year old air in Macy’s
And the green cashmere sweaters on top of the glass counter
I am remembering the way pizza smells in the streets calling
hunger out of ourselves
I am thinking now of the Hudson River and the rain meeting it
The mist already rising over the George Washington Bridge
And the trees growing wildly on the other shore

~ from The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal, edited by James Crews (Storey Publishing, 2023).
George Washington Bridge mist, January 2024.

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to dye or not to dye?

~ jama ~ 27 Comments

“It is not by the gray of the hair that one knows the age of the heart.” ~ Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton

Here’s a little something to lighten the mood. 🙂

“Acropolis” by Mawra Tahreem.
GRECIAN TEMPLES
by George Bilgere

Because I'm getting pretty gray at the temples,
which negatively impacts my earning potential
and does not necessarily attract vibrant young women
with their perfumed bosoms to dally with me
on the green hillside,
I go out and buy some Grecian Hair Formula.

And after the whole process, which involves
rubber gloves, a tiny chemistry set,
and perfect timing, I look great.
I look very fresh and virile, full of earning potential.
But when I take my fifteen-year-old beagle
out for his evening walk, the contrast is unfortunate.
Next to me he doesn't look all that great,
with his graying snout, his sort of faded,
worn-out-dog look. It makes me feel old,
walking around with a dog like that.

It's not something a potential employer,
much less a vibrant young woman with a perfumed bosom
would necessarily go for. So I go out
and get some more Grecian Hair Formula—
Light Brown, my beagle's original color.
And after all the rigmarole he looks terrific.
I mean, he's not going to win any friskiness contests,
not at fifteen. But there's a definite visual improvement.
The two of us walk virilely around the block.

The next day a striking young woman at the bookstore
happens to ask me about my parents,
who are, in fact, long dead, due to the effects of age.
They were very old, which causes death.
But having dead old parents does not go
with my virile, intensely fresh new look.

So I say to the woman, my parents are fine.
They love their active lifestyle in San Diego.
You know, windsurfing, jai alai, a still-vibrant sex life.
And while this does not necessarily cause her
to come dally with me on the green hillside, I can tell
it doesn't hurt my chances.

I can see her imagining dinner
with my sparkly, young-seeming mom and dad
at some beachside restaurant
where we would announce our engagement.

Your son has great earning potential,
she'd say to dad, who would take
a gander at her perfumed bosom
and give me a wink, like he used to do
back when he was alive, and vibrant.

~ from The White Museum (Autumn House Press, 2010).
Vintage 1973 advertisement.

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[chat + recipe + giveaway] Andrea Potos on Two Emilys

~ jama ~ 29 Comments

We’re happy to welcome Wisconsin poet Andrea Potos back to talk about her recently published chapbook, Two Emilys (Kelsay Books, 2025).

As you may have guessed, the “Emilys” in question are revered literary icons Emily Brontë and Emily Dickinson, contemporaries from opposite sides of the Atlantic who continue to mystify us with their creative genius. Though one was British and the other American, their lives had interesting parallels.

Both were unmarried and largely reclusive. They cherished home as sanctuary, wrote on scraps of paper while cooking and baking, were known for their bread recipes. The Emilys were religious skeptics living within religious families, and fascinatingly enough, they were ultimately Victorian badass writers “masquerading” as domestic spinsters, sublimating their passions and unfulfilled desires into art.

In Two Emilys, we travel with Potos to Haworth and Amherst via evocation, dream, memory, and imagination. She addresses her muses with awe and reverence, while acknowledging a unique kinship as fellow wanderer, keen observer, lover of beauty, and sister poet dedicated to her craft.

Andrea at the Brontë Parsonage, Haworth.

These poems are sheer loveliness to read with moments ethereal, delicate, sometimes humorous, warmed by genuine admiration. We thank Andrea for dropping by to tell us more about the book and for sharing all the wonderful photos + a delicious recipe. 🙂

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“Pieces of Silver” by J.I. Kleinberg (+ a giveaway)

~ jama ~ 35 Comments

“They dined on mince and slices of quince, which they ate with a runcible spoon.” ~ Edward Lear (The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, 1870).

For your delectation today, a sample poem from a new food poetry anthology, Savor: Poems for the Tongue, edited by Brennan Breeland and Stan Galloway (Friendly City Books, 2024).

I’m slowing making my way through this exquisite word banquet featuring 72 diverse poets from around the globe. Talk about food for thought and a feast for the senses!

From the sweet memories of grandmother’s kitchen to the spicy tang of street food in bustling cities, from the bitter taste of loss to the umami of love rekindled over shared meals, this collection plates up a spectrum of human experiences.

The table is set. Let’s eat!

Randolph Caldecott (“And the Dish Ran Away with the Spoon,” from Hey Diddle Diddle and Bye, Baby Bunting, 1882).
PIECES OF SILVER
by J.I. Kleinberg

I wonder how it is to be a spoon. To slip one curve
beneath, to gentle from its bowl a berry, slide edge-wise
into ice cream, into the warm cavern of a mouth.
How it is to both resist and hold flavor in the declension
of the body, to separate and deliver, to stir in clinking dance.
Friend to hand and tongue, to absinthe, to dish --
remember the cow? remember the moon?

Dulled-edged, round-toothed knives school in the drawer,
silvery herring, decorous for butter and condiments,
honey and peas, familiars to plate and tablecloth.
I wonder how it is to be a real blade -- remember the mice?
-- honed to hurt, to shear, stab, cleave. How it is to slice,
paper-thin, a gift for the tongue: fresh tomato, ripe peach.
How it is to be fanged, incisive, to be a surgeon for the truth.

How far we are now from nursery rhyme, from spooning
in the velvet-lined night. Implement taunts us, stainless
both praise and accession. Forklift, pitchfork, runcible spoon.
The drawer turned upside down, tarnished words noisy and futile.
Emily Post cannot resolve this clattered escalation of utensils.
Switchblade, forked tongue. What price a place at the table?

~ from Savor: Poems for the Tongue, edited by Brennan Breeland and Stan Galloway (Friendly City Books, 2024).
Jessie Willcox Smith (The Little Mother Goose, 1918).

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starry-eyed and optimistic

~ jama ~ 27 Comments

“Like a bolt out of the blue, faith steps in and sees you through. When you wish upon a star your dreams come true.” ~ Cliff Edwards

“Starry Night Sky Galaxy” by Brittany Drollinger.
BLUE STARS
by Richard Jones

Yesterday I made a to-do list,
a dozen tasks I would undertake
and check off the list one by one.
But what did I do with my list?
Did I put it on the piano?
Did I set it down by the coffeepot?
I remember this morning
in my robe at the back door
contemplating frost icing the grass
and seeing a dark-eyed junco at the bird feeder.
How did I know it was a junco
and not a sparrow?
Maybe juncos and sparrows are cousins.
I thought about birds in nests
of twigs, reeds, briars, and straw.
The clear, cold sky brought to mind
the image of my late father, high up
and far away, flying
once again in his silver plane,
and I closed my eyes to admire
the many blue paintings
hanging in the gallery of my childhood heart.
Perhaps at that moment
I had the to-do list in my hand
and during my azure reverie
the paper slipped from my fingers.
I only know that when I opened my eyes
I saw it would be wise
to give my blue paintings away --
only then would my heart be free
to help those in need.
I resolved to put that on my to-do list,
and that's when I noticed
my to-do list had vanished.
Now the frost has died,
the sun is pushing noon,
and I'm still in my robe
with eternity hovering in the balance.
But no day is without its victory.
Because it is hiding,
I'll search for the lost little piece of paper,
and when I find it
I'll write down my heart's resolution.
Then I'll dress for the day and go out into the world.
With pen and to-do list in my hands,
I'll draw little blue stars
beside all the accomplished tasks --
buying milk,
picking up the laundry,
driving to the library,
and paying the fines for my overdue books.

~ from Stranger on Earth (Copper Canyon Press, 2018).
“Sky Clouds” by Alla Kizimenko.

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