by Helen Ivory | Sep 10, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
Floors of Vapor Plover inside a crocodile’s mouth, blinking the clouds from its eyes. Doing nothing is difficult. Adam Day is the author of Left-Handed Wolf (LSU Press, 2020), and of Model of a City in Civil War (Sarabande Books),...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 9, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
Liminal Before he died, he saw his parents more and more, not that it bothered him, he said, there was nothing untoward going on: they didn’t gesture him to follow nor loom at his bed in the care home; they went about their ordinary lives,...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 8, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
Neuroleptics There goes the man with the paper face stretching his arms for takeoff, his cloak flapping open for flight. He knows every twig in these wooded grounds. He can float above every tree. Above him red squirrels chase each other across...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 7, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
Imagining Green The leaf is the paradigmatic form of openness: life capable of being traversed by the world without being destroyed by it (The Life of Plants. A Metaphysics of Mixture. Emanuele Coccia.) I was imagining green light like two...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 6, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
Tawny Owls I’ll take your owl, Paul, and Sylvia’s and raise you two, that call across the meadow on August nights; male and female: one twit, the other twoo. I won’t say which is which. No, I haven’t seen them, haven’t risked my bald pate, don’t...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 5, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
Newgale You stand at shoreline watching. Unaware the tide advances, despite decades of life by the sea, you dip your toes in icy Atlantic swell. But decay has arrived as a rip tide – pulls you under, drags you out into the bay. The men throw a...
