Two poems recall nuclear anxiety, one by Mike Stone, one by Michael Dickel.
Two examples of socially-engaged poets from the first half of the Twentieth Century—W B Yeats and John Cornford.
Three poems by Hungarian poet Kinga Fabó, translated into English and in Hungarian.
As he wrote Musée des Beaux Arts
Auden danced with Isherwood. He asked about a young man
who had caught their attention long ago in Berlin.
I’ll take your hyper-inflated
phallus, ego-distended balloon,
id-fueled hot-air engine…
Three poems | memory | gary lundy
These three poems play on memory, nostalgia, loss, and longing.
Two poems by Michael Rothenberg and Mitko Gogov, friends of Michael Dickel from 100TPC.
Because of the fear monster infecting this country, Joy Harjo has offered to share this poem, this song.
Three Fog Poems by Michael Dickel, David H. Rathbun, & Mike Stone. Enjoy the different views.
Time twists around after scientists think they’ve accelerated a particle faster than light (it was a loose wire…)
An old man remembers when time stood still as a bike tipped too far going around a corner and what it was like to fall out to space.
A surreal poem in a minor key, falling out of the world and into the arms of one who lives in dreams.
This fantastic figuration of f-words features consonance oh such consonance in an experimental play of sound(ing) mean(ing).
This hybrid between non-fiction, found poetry, & experimental-performance poetry connects hunger-stress-climate change and war. It hints at a desire for peace, & harmony.
Three poems set on a farm about faith in the seen and unseen and what may be coming from acts of love. Appears also in The BeZine.
This originally appeared in Fragments of Michael Dickel Sept. 2014. Thank you to G. Jamie Dedes and The BeZine for giving it a new, broader audience almost two years later! Author’s note: Sometimes, our children tell us things that they see or know, and we don’t have faith in […]
A short imagistic poem about respite from death’s pursuit through briefly glimpsed revelation.
This poem struggles in the middle of the night, wrestling with my 61st birthday and sense of failure. The poem begins:
“You want to sleep—but across the tundra,
or perhaps desert hard scrabble. The time
change lags behind and no one wants to
fund you, not even you.”