Poetry
Danielle Mckinney, Mercy (detail), featured in AGNI 103
Featured
Mihalis Katsaros in the Craving Clutch of the Moon
Sometimes we wake with a cave in our chest,
a dwelling we call Look here with me and weep.
“If war”
If war
is a film
it’s not necessarily horror.
In my case
Pleistoscene
Begging to differ, we have not
An ounce of poetry, no libraries, no bindings,
No sooth-singers, no melting iambs.
Squinting to See the Faces
My mother’s eyes, my father’s nose and teeth. My father’s curls, his earlobes, my mother’s upper lip. My second-grade face still resides in my 64-year-old face . . .
Fuckery
A year or two ago
I drove my car
to one of the half-dozen
places I go and a spider
I Think of My Mother, I Think of Maureen
Three years after my mother’s death, I broke my left wrist
in a fall. My right wrist was sprained, my dominant hand
barely working. I couldn’t drive or open jars. I couldn’t wash
my hair. I couldn’t type or hold the phone very long.
A Portfolio of British and Irish Poems
Cross-pond tidings from 2006.
“We offer the following selection as a kind of postcard: brief yet informative—and one we hope will provoke further investigation.”
From the Archive
Skinhead
Dead Reef
Meanwhile
Night in August
Someone is smoking in the lavatory / and one of the flight attendants says / shit and she gets on the mic and says / whoever this is will be prosecuted / to the fullest extent of the law / upon landing while I’m writing / I hate ballpoint pens / with a ballpoint pen because / they don’t spray my period-brown / ink all over . . .