Poem of the day

Summer Departure #3

by Virgil Suarez

after Georgia O’Keeffe’s Pelvis with Moon


In the reading room, under the spotlight,

where a moth flutters against the bulb,

I am reading Charles Simic’s poem ‘Bones’,

the one where he says his roof is covered

with pigeon bones, and he thinks he hears

them, “the little skulls cracking against

the tin”, and in front of me is my wife’s

favorite O’Keeffe painting: Pelvis with Moon.

And I think, how can we not ponder them,

this business of bones, how wind might

sift through them, bleach them with grains

of sand, over time, left on the prairie,

a reminder to all passers-by? A cow grazed

here once, not any cow, but the one my

uncle owned, the one whose milk we drank

as children, its frothy kiss on our lips, bones

of angels, bones left to the bereft, open

wings, a tent risen in homage to solitude,

like the moth who’s stopped its beating

against the heat of the light bulb, now rests

on the lamp’s base, limp and lifeless,

and o, how the mind gives in finally

to this idea of bones, bones, hollow vessels

at the bottom of everything, waiting for light

to fill them, then they will tell their stories.


13 July

My best friend

by Simon Barraclough

sees every Iranian flick,

makes tiny notes in caffs,

likes a full English

but not a fried slice

because fried slice is ‘wrong’,

listens to The Beta Band,

sucks on a pipe full of cotton wool

that I bought him, pissed,

on Seventh Avenue,

dealt with his Mum’s suicide,

gets to the smallest exhibitions,

makes all technology go wrong,

stood by me when I went mad,

understands Hegel

reads a lot of S-F,

lives round the corner,

comes to Lambchop gigs,

eats too quickly,

drinks Maker’s Mark,

might be leaving town.


12 July

Art Censorship

by Robert Richardson

11 July

The Companion

by Katrina Naomi

How many summers is it together,

with your vents and doors open;

how many springs,

full of self-important shoots;

how many autumns,

dusty and home to spiders;

and how many winters,

shut, inward looking

at not very much?


Your pungence, creativity

and openness draw her in.

You’re completely transparent –

or so it seems.


Do you long for your great aunts

at Kew, Edinburgh and Belfast,

full of spectacle, colour, sprinklers?

Do you long for a white staircase?


You’re tended by just the one gardener.

The same pair of brown mottled hands,

pummelling rich black spongey earth into plastic pots;

labels, lovingly written in blue pencil;

sprigs of green firmly pushed into place.


The trains rattle at your windows,

a mini earthquake, but one you can count on.


No need for a welcome mat,

the grass is worn

a polished carpet to your door.


And here she comes,

looking briefly to the gulls,

stepping inside. For a moment,

the sun highlights her silver hairs

caught at the top right of your frame,

as she searches for the hard green gloves.


10 July

A Tune for Dave Smith

by Maura Dooley

9 July

Crimson dragonfly

by Paul Peter Piech

8 July


by Mary Kuper

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