The Poetry Curator

It is absurd to think that the only way to tell if a poem is lasting is to wait and see if it lasts. The right reader of a good poem can tell the moment it strikes him that he has taken an immortal wound - that he will never get over it. That is to say, permanence in poetry, as in love, is perceived instantly. It hasn't to await the test of time. The proof of a poem is not that we have never forgotten it, but we knew at sight we never could forget it. -Robert Frost

"The proof of a poem is not that we have never forgotten it, but we knew at sight we never could forget it." -Robert Frost

#poetry

Book cover of Ernest Hemingway Complete Poems Edited by Nicholas Gerogiannis. Revised Edition. Sticker: Hemingway House Key West www.hemingwayhome.com Black and white photo of Ernest Hemingway in the center.

88 If my Valentine you won't be... If my Valentine you won't be, I'll hang myself on your Christmas tree. Finca Vigia, Cuba, 14 February 1956 How It Was (1976)

"If my Valentine you won't be,
I'll hang myself on your Christmas tree."
-Ernest Hemingway

Finca Vigia, Cuba, 14 February 1956
How It Was (1976)

Alicante An orange on the table Your dress on the rug And you in my bed Sweet present of the present Cool of night Warmth of my life

Alicante Une orange sur la table Ta robe sur le tapis Et toi dans mon lit Doux présent du présent Fraîcheur de la nuit Chaleur de ma vie

Alicante by Jacques Prévert

#poetry

Francisco Aragón Nicaragua in a Voice More than the poems —the fruits that sang their juices; dolls, feverish, dreaming of nights, city streets—for me it was the idle chat between the poems: cordial, intimate almost... like a river's murmur as if a place—León, Granada—could speak, whistle, inhabit a timbre...as if, closing my eyes, I had it again, once more within reach: his voice—my father unwell, won't speak.

"Nicaragua in a Voice" by Francisco Aragón

#poetry

Eloisa Amezcua The Witch Reads Me My Birthchart she says the planets & stars show that I’m too good at being alone I have unresolved traumas from past lives it is true there were difficulties during my delivery even in the womb I had a bad feeling cord around my throat as I tried to make passage forced into this world or rather out of another by extraction the witch asks if I often feel guilty asks if I try to heal those around me despite finding it difficult to bond with anyone other than myself she wants to know about my childhood memories if I’m alone in them & I admit I stop listening though I can still hear the untroubled tone in her voice vowels elongated mouth full of sounds like spandex bursting at the seams I want to go back to the stars we’ve strayed so far from the planets she says there’s much to learn about my sources of pain the gaping wound I will try to alleviate for the rest of my life I want to touch her long hair as if it were my hair I want to convince her I believe in everything she believes but I demand too much of faith like apples in the market I inspect the curves & creases put them back at the slightest sign of bruising

"The Witch Reads Me My Birthchart"

-Eloisa Amezcua, in "Latino Poetry, The Library of America Anthology," edited Rigoberto Gonzalez.

Breaking Up Like the nomadic dollar I pass to the cashier behind the register you are off to other hands.

Like the nomadic dollar
I pass to the cashier

behind the register
you are off to other hands.

-"Breaking Up," Billy Collins, Musical Tables

#poetry

Their Sex Life One failure on Top of another

One failure on
Top of another.

"Their Sex Life" by A.R. Ammons

too bitter we cried abused nature we loved too fiercely our lovers shamed too many poems we wrote disregarding poets they'll not let us die in Paris and the alluring water under the Pont Mirabeau all be encircled with barricades

Excerpt from the poem "We'll Not Die in Paris" by Natalka Bilotserkivets, translated by Dzvinia Orlowsky.

From IN THE HOUR OF WAR: POETRY FROM UKRAINE edited by Carolyn Forche and Ilya Kaminsky.

First Love Kiss me in the morning when the sun begins to rise. I look at you intently, and brush the hair from your eyes You give a sheepish smile, remembering the night. We lay under the blanket, hiding from the light. Our hearts are beating loudly, and our breaths are rather deep. The memory of this morning, forever will I keep.

First Love by Carolyn Emerick, published in "Pagan Poems, Volume II"

...takes of in the very intimate details of his poem. He avoids nothing but experiences it to the hilt. He contains it. Claims it as his own - and, we believe, laughs at it and has the time and affrontery to love a fellow of his choice and record that love in a well-made poem. [The following sentence is highlighted in blue] Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we are going through hell. William Carlos Williams

"Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we are going through hell."

-William Carlos Williams, Introduction to Howl, and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg

...He suffers time the way a lover always will, a traveler, as if by having at last the loved one, as if by merely arriving a completion takes place. The harrowed waves. Paris, the destination

"...He suffers time the way
a lover always will, a traveler, as if
by having at last the loved one, as if
by merely arriving a completion takes place.
The harrowed waves. Paris, the destination"

Poetry from "The Crossing, 1927" by Lynda Hull

Why I Am a Pagan Zitkala-Sa Gertrude Simmons Bonnin When the spirit swells my breast I love to roam leisurely among the green hills; or sometimes, sitting on the brink of the murmuring Missouri, I marvel at the great blue overhead. With half closed eyes I watch the huge cloud shadows in their noiseless play upon the high bluffs opposite me, while into my ear ripple the sweet, soft cadences of the river's song. Folded hands lie in my lap, for the time forgot. My heart and I lie small upon the earth like a grain of throbbing sand. Drifting clouds and tinkling waters, together with the warmth of a genial summer day, bespeak with eloquence the loving Mystery round about us. During the idle while I sat upon the sunny river brink, I grew somewhat, though my response be not so clearly manifest as in the green grass fringing the edge of the high bluff back of me.

Why I Am a Pagan by Zitkala-Sa (Gertrude Simmons Bonnin)

constellations rearrange themselves into a protest sign every uprising has the universe on their side that's not a horizon that's the earth drawing the line

CONSTELLATIONS REARRANGE THEMSELVES INTO A PROTEST SIGN

Every uprising has
the universe
on their side.

That's not a horizon.
That's the earth
drawing the line.

-Andrea Gibson in You Better Be Lightning #poetry

Donate to Support for the West Family, organized by West Family Supporters The West family has always been there for those around them, offering kindness and … West Family Supporters needs your support for Support for the West Family

Hey internet strangers, a long time writer friend of mine and one of the earliest supporters of TBQ suffered a stroke this week and if using my platform can help his beautiful family in any way, I'm happy to do it! gofund.me/212e79a0f

A paper heart is cut jaggedly into two pieces and has a bandaid spanning across the two. Text says All My Relations, Volume 10, repair. Submissions open.

Oh, no! We didn't get enough submissions for a full issue. So, we're leaving submissions open until Feb 25. Send us your work on the theme of "repair."

Open to racially and ethnically marginalized, gender variant, and disabled creatives only.

Guidelines: www.globalmajoritypress.org/guidelines/

Recently, when I encounter something I don't know, I'm trying not to pull out my phone and look it up. Feeling certain all the time has terrible consequences for art.

-- Ross White

Background: solid white Foreground text: I hang crucified on every tear Of your flood of tears. Now there is nothing left to forgive. -Vladimir Mayakovsky from "A Cloud of Trousers"

I hang crucified on
every tear
Of your flood of
tears.
Now there is
nothing left to
forgive.

-Vladimir Mayakovsky from "A Cloud of Trousers"

Book page with text highlighted in pink. Text: Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

From "Lady Lazarus" by Sylvia Plath

Book page with the last four lines highlighted in pink. Text: Impeccable Conception I met a Lady Poet who took for inspiration colored birds, and whispered words, a lover's hesitation. A falling leaf could stir her. A wilting, dying rose would make her write, both day and night, the most rewarding prose. She'd find a hidden meaning in every pair of pants, then hurry home to be alone and write about romance.

She'd find a hidden meaning
in every pair of pants,
then hurry home to be alone
and write about romance.

-From "Impeccable Conception" by Maya Angelou

Book page highlighted in pink. Text: The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

-From the "Caged Bird" by Maya Angelou