Friday Pick: Spring Reads

  This Friday, we offer a round up of a few books that have just come out or are about to come out that we're particularly looking forward to...
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THE POEM: Reading Frank O’Hara’s “The Day Lady Died”

American poet Frank O'Hara was born on March 27, 1926. In celebration of the poet's 87th birthday (O'Hara died in 1966 at the age of 40), poet Siegfried Mortkowitz remembers the first time he came across O'Hara's poetry and explains why O'Hara's great poem, "The Day Lady Died" still affects him so many years later.

Christopher Citro

The elevator returned to the first floor. / Some strangers got on. They smiled at me, / so I smiled at them. They got off on the second floor. / I stayed on. The elevator went up to the third floor. / A man got on with a suitcase. He didn't smile at me...

Chris Joyner

Long before I’d ever played / the strip-club-sleaze-role, / let alone glimpsed a female / nipple, I puzzled at what secrets / these circles held...

Cedar Rey

Birds and the dead have this in common too: they float. The wisest of the dead / and the wisest of the birds both get high enough to see our whole damn world / is floating. Tokyo, New York, every damn metropolis soaring round the sun...

Friday Pick: Roque Dalton’s “Tavern”

"Tavern" is a significant long poem that captures the tenor of mid-1960s Prague, and all its attendent political, social, and literary uproars. It does so with an inventive and complex structure that puts Dalton on the edge of the mid-century Spanish-language avant-garde.

Andrew McCallum Crawford

‘You’re not wearing that,’ she said. I’d just put on a clean shirt, a brown button-down. ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘Because you look stupid,’ she said. She screwed the top on her lipstick. ‘Where’s that blue one I got you?’

Laura Kasischke

She said, So / you followed me this far, Laura. Good / for you. You’ve / come to the right / place to die. // Shit, I thought. Oh God...

Richard Toth

All right here’s one for you. This one comes from my mother’s cousin who lives up in New England. Don’t ask me why.

Kate Bonnici

Inside the kitchen table leg, a carved letter K: / my sister, gone a year. I touch her knifed hollows. // Our hands are points A and B on a line...

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