A poem by Ed Madden, a short story by Sigrid Nunez, a novel by Lily King, and graphic work by Elisa Macellari and Aidan Koch

~
My husband, the blue room, the bright room, best china, 
best silver lifted from a box in the closet, . . . 
—From "My husband who is not my husband," a poem by Ed Madden (2014). 

He wanted to laugh, but the woman was being earnest. She was young—early thirties, he guessed—with an unremarkable face except for her eyes, so dark you could barely distinguish iris from pupil. . . . Kiss Me Deadly red lipstick, and a long-sleeved forest-green dress of some suède-like fabric that looked vintage. His gaze kept being drawn to her gleaming manicure, each copper-colored nail like a Japanese beetle.
—From "Greensleeves," a short story by Sigrid Nunez, The New Yorker (September 9, 2024), pp. 44-49. 

The light was different than in Thailand. Or perhaps the dry and dusty landscape somehow lessened its intensity. 
—From Papaya Salad, a graphic novel by Elisa Macellari, translated from the Italian by Carla Roncalli di Montorio (Dark Horse Books, a division of Dark Horse Comics, 2020). This is from page 108 of the hardcover. 

The villagers here used to all be animists . . . they believed the forest was alive.  
—From Spiral and Other Stories, a dreamlike collection of comics by Aidan Koch (New York Review Comics, 2024). This is from "A New Year." 

You knew I'd write a book about you someday. You said once that I'd dredged up the whole hit parade minus you.
—From Heart the Lover, a novel by Lily King (Grove Press, 2026). 

A poem by George Oppen, a film written by Justine Triet and Arthur Harari, and short stories by Claire-Louise Bennett, Saïd Sayrafiezadeh, and Souvankham Thammavongsa

~
We saw, our heads
Ringing under the stars we walked
To where it would have wet our feet
Had it been water
—From "The Forms of Love" by George Oppen, reprinted by The Academy of American Poets. This segment was highlighted on their social media on April 24, 2024, during National Poetry Month. "The Forms of Love" was included in New Collected Poems of George Oppen (New Directions Publishing, 2008).

At the bottom of the street was the common and that was one of the few places I could handle at certain times of the day. Wearing a long green velvet skirt that mingled with the gently surging grass, I'd walk slowly, sedately even, around the ponds, dispensing bread along the way so that the ducks would stay with me. I would have been ill at ease anywhere, I expect, but London has a way of embellishing a minor dread so that it takes on pathological and seductive proportions.
—From "Invisible Bird," a short story by Claire-Louise Bennett, The New Yorker (May 30, 2022), pp. 54-59.

Somebody said, of course money doesn't make you happy, but it's still better to cry in a car than in a subway.
—From Anatomy of a Fall (2023), a French film originally titled Anatomie d'une chute, which was directed by Justine Triet and written by Justine Triet and Arthur Harari. It stars Sandra Hüller, Swann Arlaud, and Milo Machado-Graner. It's a crime drama, split between English and French, and has won a slew of awards including an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay.

"Just be careful," they told me, but they didn't offer any follow-up, and partly because I knew they were suggesting something that I didn't really want to hear, and because I knew this would be the best job I'd ever be able to find, I never asked them to elaborate. Before leaving, they'd say, "Don't stay too late."
—From "Nondisclosure Agreement," a short story by Saïd Sayrafiezadeh, The New Yorker (May 9, 2022), pp. 62-68.

The evening I actually met Miss Emily's son, I was finishing up my shift when I saw him come in. He seemed real glamorous, and I hadn't seen someone like that before so close up, looking right back at me.
—From "Trash," a story by Souvankham Thammavongsa, The New Yorker (June 13, 2022), pp. 58-60.

Fiction by Ayşegül Savaş and Camille Bordas, and poetry by Chloe Honum

~
I'd been at the apartment for two months when Agnes wrote that she was coming. 
          I heard her from the bedroom late one evening. The door in the hallway opened and closed. She didn't call out to me before going up to the studio. 
          The following day as I was leaving for the library, I ran into her on the building stairs. She was tall and pleasingly thin. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was dressed in a crisp white shirt, opening up into an elegant ruffle on one side of her waist, at once striking and casual. Her shoes resembled royal slippers and were the same soft shade of green as her trousers. She may have been on her way to the opera or to a bookshop and would have been comfortable in either place. She wore no ornaments, except for a rectangular gray stone ring on one finger, which I noticed when she extended her hand. 
          "You must be our tenant," she said. "Finally, we meet." 
          She enunciated each word, as if she were reading aloud from a book. 
—From White on White, a novel by Ayşegül Savaş (Riverhead Books, 2021). This section is from page 14 of the hardcover.

This is not a rewrite of that story in which plants and animals and people keep winding up dead over the course of a school year, but it starts the same, and it feels odd not to acknowledge, so I will. I just did. Things kept dying. My father first, in June, then the puppy my ex-wife had adopted to help the children get over their grandpa, and then the school janitor, Lane. Right after Halloween, Lane had died during lunchtime in the cafeteria, in front of the kids. Heart attack. A few weeks later, my son, Ernest, came home from school and told me that he hoped there was no afterlife.
          "I hope there’s no afterlife," he said. We were in the living room, looking through the window, waiting to see if the rain would turn to snow. "I hope he's not watching over me."
          I asked who he meant. I thought maybe he was talking about my father, but perhaps it was Lane on his mind. I didn't think it could be the dog.
—From "One Sun Only," a short story by Camille Bordas, The New Yorker (March 7, 2022), pp. 58-64.

Nightly, the smoke from the neighbor's incinerator pawed the air
          in our garden. Black flecks of newspaper settled
across the violets. . . .
—From "Nightfall in Spring," a poem by Chloe Honum, from her collection The Lantern Room (Tupelo Press, 2022), p. 9. My other favorite from this collection of poems was the one that inspired me to buy the book in the first place: "At a Days Inn in Barstow, California" (Poem-a-Day, May 15, 2019, Academy of American Poets). It appeared on page 46 of The Lantern Room. Many of the poems from this book previously appeared in her chapbook Then Winter (Bull City Press, 2017). Honum is also the author of The Tulip-Flame (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2014). That book's cover, which I find really astonishing, features a photograph of this piece of artwork: Bust (Impression), life size: 17" x 21.5" x 13", 2005, cast glass, by Karen LaMonte. 

Fiction by Ayşegül Savaş and several poems

~
She didn't think they'd be staying home very much—there were so many places she wanted to take Leo—but she had in mind a scene of the two of them eating in bed. Did people really do that? It seemed as though there would be too much mess, nowhere to put your plate. Still, she liked the idea: the sleepy indulgence, the sheets streaked with light—the hour, in her imagination, was late afternoon, which may have been the reason for the beer, though this particular timing would require some planning, with everything else she wanted to do with him.
—From "Long Distance," a short story by Ayşegül Savaş, The New Yorker (January 31, 2022), pp. 50-55.

It's dusk on a Tuesday in June. A hot wind
       bears down and east. In my room, a stranger's
hairclip lies like a gilded insect beside the sink.
—From "At a Days Inn in Barstow, California," a poem by Chloe Honum (Poem-a-Day, May 15, 2019, Academy of American Poets). 

When the big clock at the train station stopped,
the leaves kept falling,
the trains kept running,
my mother's hair kept growing longer and blacker,
and my father's body kept filling up with time.
—From "Big Clock," a poem by Li-Young Lee (Poem-a-Day, December 8, 2021, Academy of American Poets). 

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store   
and the gas station and the green market and   
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,   
as she runs along two or three steps behind me . . .   
—From "Hurry," a poem by Marie Howe, from her collection Kingdom of Ordinary Time (W. W. Norton, 2008). Her poem "My Dead Friends" was just published two days ago (Poem-a-Day, February 22, 2022, Academy of American Poets).

Behind the brick house next to us: 
an indoor pool, enormous, used only 
by invisible swimmers.
All winter the windows steam and clear. 
—From "Neighbors," a poem by Laura Cherry, from her collection Haunts (Cooper Dillon Books, 2010), p. 35. It previously appeared in her chapbook, What We Planted, which was the winner of the 2002 Philbrick Poetry Award by the Providence Athenaeum. My other favorite from Haunts was "The Grownups Take Charge," the third part of a four-part poem, p. 70. 

A few poems by Grady Chambers, Dorianne Laux, Mary Oliver, Tina Chang, and Beth Ann Fennelly for Poetry Month

 ~

You could smell the day’s heat even before the day began. 

Constant trickle, endless green trees flanking the highway: 

summer had come back. . . . 

—From "A Known Fact," a poem by Grady Chambers (Quarterly West, Issue 96).

It’s the best part of the day, morning light sliding

down rooftops, treetops, the birds pulling themselves

up out of whatever stupor darkened their wings, . . . 

—From "I Never Wanted to Die," a poem by Dorianne Laux (Poem-a-Day, April 16, 2021, Academy of American Poets).

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees 
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
—From "Wild Geese," a poem by Mary Oliver. 

Up ahead it’s white. Snow animal,

I’m running at your back. I’ve failed to tell you
I’ve been hungry all this time, . . . 

—From "Color," a poem by Tina Chang (Hybrida: Poems, W. W. Norton, 2019).

Today is the day the first bare-chested
          runners appear, coursing down College Hill
                      as I drive to campus to teach, . . . 
—From "First Warm Day in a College Town," a poem by Beth Ann Fennelly (Unmentionables, W. W. Norton, 2008).

A few poems for sheltering in place during Poetry Month

~
. . .  And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know.  All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money.  Prayer
as a last re-
sort.  Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. . . .

--From "Peanut Butter," a poem by Eileen Myles, from her book Not Me (Semiotext(e), 1991).  This poem was recently featured on the Ploughshares blog in a post called "Three Poems of Ordinary Exuberance for Uncertain Times," an essay by Ariel Katz (March 18, 2020). 


I have this, and this isn’t a mouth
       full of the names of odd flowers

I’ve grown in secret.
       I know none of these by name

but have this garden now,
       and pastel somethings bloom

near the others and others.
       I have this trowel, these overalls,

this ridiculous hat now.
       This isn’t a lung full of air.

--From "I Have This Way of Being," a poem by Jamaal May (2016).

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just
like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing.  "Help,"
said the flight agent.  "Talk to her.  What is her problem?  We
told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.
"Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti?  Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-
se-wee?"  The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly
used, she stopped crying.  She thought the flight had been cancelled
entirely.  She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the
next day.  I said, "No, we’re fine, you'll get there, just later, who is
picking you up?  Let’s call him."

--From "Gate A-4," a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, from her children's collection Honeybee (HarperCollins, 2008), pp. 162-164.


A man leaves the world 

and the streets he lived on 

grow a little shorter. 

One more window dark 

in this city, the figs on his branches 

will soften for birds.

--From "Streets," a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, from her book Words Under the Words (Eighth Mountain Press, 1995).

It is December and we must be brave.

The ambulance’s rose of light
blooming against the window.
Its single siren-cry: Help me.
A silk-red shadow unbolting like water
through the orchard of her thigh.

--From "Manhattan Is a Lenape Word," a poem by Natalie Diaz, from her collection Postcolonial Love Poem (Graywolf Press, 2020).


First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.

--From "Diving into the Wreck," a poem by Adrienne Rich, from her book Diving into the Wreck: Poems 1971-1972 (W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1973).

A graphic novel by Fanny Britt and Isabelle Arsenault, and four poems

~
My dad cries.
I don't mean right now as we speak,
even though that's probably the case.
I don't mean that my dad (noun) cries (verb) watching the sun set (adverb phrase), either.
What I mean is, my dad cries.
A dog barks.  A cat meows.  My dad cries.
Truffle thinks it's because he loves us too much.
There's some truth to that. 
But between you, me and the bus driver, 
you don't need to be a rocket scientist to know that if my dad cries, 
it's first and foremost because of the wine. 
--From Louis Undercover, a graphic novel by Fanny Britt and Isabelle Arsenault, translated from the French by Christelle Morelli and Susan Ouriou (Groundwood Books/House of Anansi Press, Toronto, Ontario/Berkeley, California, 2017).  First published in French as Louis parmi les spectres (Les Éditions de la Pastèque, Montreal, Quebec, 2016). 

I was on the porch pinching back the lobelia
like trimming a great blue head of hair. 

We'd just planted the near field, the far one 
the day before.  I'd never seen it so clear,

so gusty, so overcast, so clear, so calm.
They say pearls must be worn or they lose their luster, . . .  
--From "Another Story with a Burning Barn in It," a poem by Lisa Olstein, on the website of the Poetry Foundation.  This is an excerpt from her collection Radio Crackling, Radio Gone (Copper Canyon Press, 2006). 


I'm six months along 
and I wonder why nobody 
told me.  I've got red wine 
in my right hand, a cigarette
in my left.  There's
a noisy party all 
around me.  I put down 
the glass and lift my shirt.
The baby's there, visible 
under my transparent
skin, a little girl, wearing
bluebird barrettes.
--From "Expecting," a poem by Meghan O'Rourke, from her collection Sun in Days (W. W. Norton & Company, 2017), pp. 39-40.  This poem was first published, as "Nightdream," in Issue 58 of Tin House.

You can only miss someone when they are still present to you.
--From "Mistaken Self-Portrait as Demeter in Paris," a poem by Meghan O'Rourke, from her collection Sun in Days (W. W. Norton & Company, 2017), pp. 84-85.  This poem was first published, as "Demeter in Paris," by the Academy of American Poets.

What you did wasn't so bad.
You stood in a small room, waiting for the sun.
At least you told yourself that.
I know it was small, 
but there was something, a kind of pulped lemon, 
at the low edge of the sky.
--From "Poem of Regret for an Old Friend," a poem by Meghan O'Rourke, from her collection Sun in Days (W. W. Norton & Company, 2017), pp. 86-87.  "Poem of Regret for an Old Friend" was first published in The New Yorker.

Two poems and two short stories

~
John Locke says children don't understand elapsed time, 
and when I was a girl it was true
and it remains true--
--From "Essay on 'An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,'" a poem by Catherine Barnett, The New Yorker (March 19, 2018), pp. 52-53.

Our house, the very clever work of a local architect, consists of five shipping containers raised several feet above the ground.  Half of one container functions as a garden office and the other half functions as a covered footbridge over the stream that runs through our land; previously, you had to negotiate a pair of old planks. 
--From "The Poltroon Husband," a short story by Joseph O'Neill, The New Yorker (March 12, 2018), pp. 66-70.

The Arabs used to say, 
When a stranger appears at your door, 
feed him for three days 
before asking who he is, . . . 
--From "Red Brocade," a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, from her collection 19 Varieties of Gazelle (Greenwillow Books, 2002) and reprinted by the Academy of American Poets. 

He tossed the unfinished coffee into the trash.  As he was on his way back to Spice Grill, a Mercedes pulled quickly alongside him, making a wide, sweeping turn into one of Mr. Raj's private parking spots.  The Mercedes came to a short stop, and Boss Bhatti, a Spice Grill regular and Raj's business partner, stepped out in a suit and tie.  Boss Bhatti called Vikram over to the car.  He needed help carrying crates of mangoes into the restaurant.  Vikram reached inside the Mercedes and grabbed a stack.  
--From "Guerrilla Marketing," a short story by Sanjay Agnihotri, One Story, Issue 236 (December 28, 2017).

"Mother's Day" by David Young

~
I see her doing something simple, paying bills,

or leafing through a magazine or book,

and wish that I could say, . . .
 --From "Mother's Day," a poem by David Young, continued on the website of the Academy of American Poets, reprinted from Field of Light and Shadow: Selected and New Poems by David Young (Alfred A. Knopf, 2010).