Poems by Charles Kell, Katha Pollitt, and Lynne Knight

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when I opened his bed-
room door, staring, 
for a second.

He never noticed, 
or woke, if sleeping . . . 
--From "My Father Sick, resting with a Rag Covering his Face," a poem by Charles Kell, Linden Avenue, No. 61 (June 2017).

When I was a child I understood everything
about, for example, futility.  Standing for hours
on the hot asphalt outfield, trudging for balls
I'd ask myself, how many times will I have to perform
this pointless task, and all the others?
--From "What I Understood," a poem by Katha Pollitt, from her collection The Mind-Body Problem (Random House, 2009).  (Thanks to José Angel Araguz for drawing my attention to the poem via this blog post, which includes the poem in full.)

We were near a waterfall when he asked
if I'd marry him.  I said yes
because he was kind to my daughter

and my mistakes of the past few years
had taught me that being smart isn't everything: 
I was smart, and look what I'd done . . . 
--From "The Waterfall," a poem by Lynne Knight, from her collection The Persistence of Longing (Terrapin Books, 2016), p. 25.  "The Waterfall" originally appeared in The Gathering 11.

We broke things.  Glasses, a lead crystal vase, 
the ceramic chicken painted à la portuguaise. 
--From "Survival," a poem by Lynne Knight, from her collection The Persistence of Longing (Terrapin Books, 2016), p. 26.  "Survival" originally appeared in Green Mountains Review.  It also appeared in Poetry Daily (November 10, 2016).

I used to wait at the window for lake-effect snow.
First wind, then then a thin smattering of flakes . . . 
--From "The Snow Couple," a poem by Lynne Knight, from her collection The Persistence of Longing (Terrapin Books, 2016), pp. 27-28.  "The Snow Couple" originally appeared in Marin Poetry Center Anthology.

Three poems by Lynne Knight, a novel by Samanta Schweblin, and a short story collection by Ha Jin

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We broke things.  Glasses, a lead crystal vase, 
the ceramic chicken painted à la portuguaise.  

It was the longest, hardest winter in a decade.
Snow against the windows, sealing us inside.
--From "Survival," a poem by Lynne Knight, published in Poetry Daily on November 10, 2016, from her collection The Persistence of Longing (Terrapin Books, 2016).  


I loved hearing the guy on the local station
in the small town where I lived for twenty years: 
Here in the foothills of the Adirondacks.
I was trying to become a poet, and I thought
everything I heard could become a poem
if I could figure out how to make use of it, 
the way frontierswomen made use of berries . . . 
--From "The Twenty-Year Workshop," a poem by Lynne Knight, Rattle, Number 50 (Winter 2015).  


I was thinking No.  No, oh no.  Not one more thing.
I was thinking my mother, who sat rigid
in the passenger seat crying, How terrible!
as if we had hit a child not your front bumper, 
would drive me mad, and then there would be 
two of us mad, mother and daughter . . . 
--From "To the Young Man Who Cried Out 'What Were You Thinking?' When I Backed Into His Car," a poem by Lynne Knight, Rattle, Number 32 (Winter 2009).  


It's dark and I can't see.  The sheets are rough, they bunch up under my body.  I can't move, but I'm talking.
          It's the worms.  You have to be patient and wait.  And while we wait, we have to find the exact moment when the worms come into being.
--From Fever Dream, a brief novel by Samanta Schweblin, translated from the Spanish by Megan McDowell (Riverhead Books, 2017).


The moment Hong Chen entered the narrow lane leading to Lilian's house, a bloody rooster landed before her, jumping about and scattering its feathers.  Four little boys ran over with knives and a hatchet in their hands.  "Kill, kill him!" one boy cried, but none of them dared approach the rooster, whose throat was cut half through.
--From "Taking a Husband," a short story by Ha Jin, from his often brutal collection Under the Red Flag (Zoland Books/Steerforth Press, 1999), pp. 132-153.

The Doll Collection, an anthology of poems edited by Diane Lockward

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These are some of my favorite poems from The Doll Collection, an anthology edited by Diane Lockward and published by Terrapin Books in 2016.

(Full disclosure: one of my poems, "In the Chair Museum," which was originally published in Eunoia Review, also appeared in this collection.)


I spotted it wedged on a dusty shelf
behind a rose-pattern, porcelain trinket-tray. . . .
--From "Marriage Doll" by Luanne Castle, p. 20.  Reprinted from her first collection of poetry, Doll God (Aldrich Press).

her plastic body is only visible if you remove 
her mother's stomach the size and color of a vanilla wafer . . .
--From "The Pregnant Doll" by Nicole Cooley, p. 27.

I had my own baby carriage
for my baby dolls to ride in
a fine, four-wheel thing . . . 
--From "Carriage" by Akua Lezli Hope, p. 61.

The stove doesn't work.  The food is painted
on the refrigerator door. . . . 
--From "The Only House in the Neighborhood" by Sarah Rose Nordgren, p. 82.  Reprinted from her debut collection of poetry, Best Bones (University of Pittsburgh Press).

Two weeks after my mother's death, the doll was 
waiting under the tree, the blonde-haired Amy I'd 
dreamed over in the Sears Christmas catalogue . . .
--From "Madame Alexander's Amy" by Alison Townsend, pp. 110-111.  Reprinted from The Blue Dress: Poems and Prose Poems (White Pine Press).