Category Archives: Uncategorized

15 January, 2019 01:37

Dear readers,

It’s Marilyn Chin’s birthday, and she is 64 today! Just getting started, I’m sure. In the spirit of not-making-the-perfect-the-enemy-of-the-good, here is her poem “Altar (#3),” which is from a poem sequence. Ms. Chin was born in Hong Kong and raised in the Pacific NW, and is professor emerita at San Diego State U. Enjoy these 2 quatrains. -ed.

ALTAR (#3)

Why cry over dried flowers?
They’re meant to be straw.
Why cry over miniature roses?
They’re meant to be small.

Why cry over Buddha’s hand citron?
Why cry over the hidden flower?
Why cry over Mother’s burnt forehead?
Her votive deathglow, her finest hour.



Monday’s Verse 1/7/2019

Dear readers,

Monday’s Verse obviously took an accidental hiatus over the fall. That’s not because I hate poetry now, it’s just one of those things. To be frank, I haven’t made any NY resolutions, so it may keep happening to some extent in 2019, although the timing of this note suggests I’ve turned over a new leaf. I will do my best. At the very least I will try to parcel out some reading over the next 5 weeks so that "Blue Monday" does not arrive to your inboxes out of the … blue, on a … Monday, such that you burst into tears right there at your desk/office/meeting/subway ride/iPhone while waiting in line at the store.

As for today, tip o’ the keyboard to reader Ali Najmi, who cited to this poem on his always-enlightening twitter feed. This is by poet Akhil Katyal, @akhilkatyal, and I hope I’m typing it OK, because having seen this one only via a tweet, and not having the right knowledge, experience, keyboard, or dictionaries for translation, I’m just doing my best to replicate how he rendered the dual-language wordplay in this tiny little cool poem. You can follow Ali, or Mr. Katyal, on Twitter via their full names, and me @MondaysVerse. Remember that each weekly poem gets tweeted, and each tweet links to the "blog" repository of past MV editions( ).

This poem appears to have run in the Times of India lifestyle blog on September 30, 2018. I hope you enjoy it. -ed.


I confuse my be with pe.

He asks me to write ‘water’,

I write ‘you’.

Who knew they’d make them so close,

Aab (پانی) and Aap (تم).

Both difficult to hold on to.

Monday’s Verse 11/12/2018

Dear readers,

you’ve probably followed some commemorations of WWI this weekend. I couldn’t help but find one of the WWI poets for our reading today. We’ve read several of them (mostly British, but some American) over the years, but can’t recall if we’ve looked at Ivor Gurney (1890-1937) before. He was also a composer, and even before enlisting in WWI, had suffered nervous breakdowns. He was wounded twice in the war, the 2nd time by poison gas.

WWI is seen as definitive break with the world that came before, partially because of new technologies (machine guns, tanks, poison gas) that made the horrors of combat more vivid (Along with, of course, the scope of the war). And the WWI poets, faced directly with that imagery, pushed writing about the battlefield past the patriotic complacencies of prior war poetry.

This example, however, retreats a bit from the responsibility of the poet to depict the horrors of the battlefield. It is, instead, a stately sonnet (ABBA ABBA CDE CDE) that speaks unironically about the skill, might, mettle, and honur of the craft, and of the military action. Unless I’m reading it wrong — this is my first time with Ivor Gurney since using a big anthology for Brit Lit in about 1992. Have a good week,



Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes;

Thy lovely things must all be laid away;

And thou, as others, must face the riven day

Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums,

Or bugles’ strident cry. When mere noise numbs

The sense of being, the sick soul doth sway,

Remember thy great craft’s honour, that they may say

Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs

Of praise the little versemen joyed to take

Shall be forgotten; then they must know we are,

For all our skill in words, equal in might

And strong of mettle as those we honoured; make

The name of poet terrible in just war,

And like a crown of honour upon the fight.

Monday’s Verse 11/6/2018 — election day special

Dear friends,

take time to vote, and take time to smell the roses, and then take 3 minutes for poetry. I really apologize for my inattention to the listserv the past couple weeks! Things happened, mistakes were made.

Jericho Brown published his first volume in 2008, and it won the American Book Award. He’s since published a second, placed poems in many of the top journals, and has been teaching creative writing at Atlanta’s Emory University. But I think today’s poem is the first time he’s appeared in Poetry Magazine. There are depths and layers to this one, using an extended metaphor of Achilles’ relationship to his lover and fellow soldier Patroclus from the Iliad.

Not knowing many of Mr. Brown’s poems, I don’t know if he worships assonance in all his work as much as in this example. I tend to like poems that look like this — really long at first glance, but really, not much more than a sonnet in total, with its consistently short lines. Three, four, or five words each, pretty much. And you still get a lot of internally rhyming syllables packed into those short segments. It’s sort of the opposite of Homer’s dactylic hexameter. He evokes some of Homer’s epic themes, but then leaves them be (in my reading). I think he’s more concerned with the personal in this poem — what is it to be in one’s own skin, what is it to put on another’s armor? And is their word play? Yes, there is word play. Have a field day. -ed.


When a hurricane sends

Winds far enough north

To put our power out,

We only think of winning

The war bodies wage

To prove the border

Between them isn’t real.

An act of God, so sweet.

No TV. No novel. No

Recreation but one

Another, and neither of us

Willing to kill. I don’t care

That I don’t love my lover.

Knowing where to stroke

In little light, knowing what

Will happen to me and how

Soon, these rank higher

Than a clear view

Of the face I’d otherwise

Flay had I some training

In combat, a blade, a few

Matches. Candles are

Romantic because

We understand shadows.

We recognize the shape

Of what once made us

Come, so we come

Thinking of approach

In ways that forgo

Substance. I’m breathing —

Heaving now —

In my own skin, and I

Know it. Romance is

An act. The perimeter

Stays intact. We make out

So little that I can’t help

But imagine my safety.

I get to tell the truth

About what kind

Of a person lives and who

Dies. Barefoot survivors.

Damned heroes, each

Corpse lit on a pyre.

Patroclus died because

He could not see

What he really was inside

His lover’s armor.

-October 2018

Monday’s Verse 10/15/2018

Dear readers,

quickly this morning, no time for small chat, is a poem by Richard Blanco — you can look him up because he has been at least an inaugural poet, but was maybe also poet laureate for a bit? I forget. But in this 20-year-old poem I hear not only the bilingual symbols of ethnic american poetry, but also Wallace Stevens. Enjoy. -ed.


Que será, el café of this holy, incorporated place,

the wild steam of scorched espresso cakes rising

like mirages from the aromatic waste, waving

over the coffee-glossed lips of these faces

assembled for a standing breakfast of nostalgia,

of tastes that swirl with the delicacy of memories

in these forty-cent cups of brown sugar histories,

in the swirling froth of café-con-leche, que será,

what have they seen that they cannot forget—

the broad-leaf waves of tabaco and plantains

the clay dust of red and nameless mountains,

que será, that this morning I too am a speck;

I am the brilliant guitar of a tropical morning

speaking Spanish and ribboning through potions

of waist-high steam and green cane oceans,

que será, drums vanishing and returning,

the African gods that rule a rhythmic land

playing their music: bongó, bembé, conga;

que será, that cast the spells of this rumba,

this wild birthright, this tropical dance

with the palms of this exotic confusion;

que será, that I too should be a question,

que será, what have I seen, what do I know—

culture of café and loss, this place I call home.


Monday’s Verse 10/1/2018

Dear readers,

100 years ago, people sometimes thought that things were totally falling apart. We’ve talked about this, even specifically about "things fall[ing] apart," within the past few months. Among the most stunning things about William Butler Yeats’s (1865-1939) "Leda and the Swan" was that he wrote it in response to a magazine editor’s request for a poem on the subject of the Russian revolution. And Yeats, weirdo that he is, came up with this. It was published in The Dial in 1923.

I was way into Greek mythology when I was little. Like, waaaaay into it. Never mind that I didn’t understand exactly what rape was, I also couldn’t get my head around how this bird was supposed to attack and subdue a grown woman. All these physical descriptions and action words that Yeats uses brought it to my mind in a way I could never have imagined before. It’s actually frightening, not fantastic. And it’s still recognizably a war poem, but in Hegelian-mythic terms, fitting with WBY’s cosmic visions of cones and cycles. At the same time, it feels like being human — caught up in the white rush of existing moment to moment. Have a good week. -ed.


A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies? A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Monday’s Verse 9/24/2018

Dear readers,

I’ll tell you one thing Robert Herrick had right back in the 1700s or whenever: old time is still a-flying. Hence my Tuesday afternoon version of MV. Everyone loves formal poetry, so let’s have some more! Featuring yet another villanelle (an article tells me it’s for "rustic" in Italian? Is that right? Seems counter-intuitive, but… who am I to say?), by one Joyce Sutphin (b. 1949) of general prairie fame. Her poems tend to present a pastoral scene and then puncture the pretty picture with pain, because her name is an anagram for "it punches joy." Anyway, here’s a bio provided by the Poetry Foundation, and a cool poem. -ed.

Joyce Sutphen grew up on a farm in Minnesota. She earned a PhD in Renaissance drama from the University of Minnesota, and has taught British literature and creative writing at Gustavus Adolphus College in Saint Peter, Minnesota. Her first collection of poems, Straight Out of View (1995), won the Barnard Women’s Poets Prize. Subsequent collections include Coming Back to the Body (2000), a Minnesota Book Award finalist, Naming the Stars(2004), winner of the Minnesota Book Award, and First Words (2010).She has received a McKnight Artist Fellowship and a Minnesota State Arts Board Fellowship and was named Minnesota’s Poet Laureate in 2011.


I will have been walking away:

no matter what direction I intended,

at that moment, I will have been walking

Away into the direction that you now say

I have always intended, no matter what my

intention was then, I will have been

Walking away, though it will not be clear

what it was that I was leaving or

even why, it seems that you will say

That always, I was walking away,

intending a direction that was not towards

you, but moving away with every step,

Or, even when I pretended to be walking

towards you, only making the place

for my feet to go backwards,

Away, where I will have been walking,

always away: intention and direction

unknown, but knowing you will always

say I will have been walking away.