Tuesday, August 04, 2020

Tuesday poem #383 : Brandon Krieg : Purplish Seaweed

low tide, walk
            where yesterday teens
cast lines to,
     perch walked

       limp damp purplish seaweed
            baking into scent, flopped
                  the way waves went
no renaissance broke through the roof to find
frescoed on the wall
                        of the long-buried
                                                orgy hall

Brandon Krieg's most recent book is Magnifier, winner of the 2019 Colorado Prize for Poetry chosen by Kazim Ali. He teaches at Kutztown University and lives in Kutztown, PA with his spouse, Colleen O'Brien, and their son.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, July 28, 2020

Tuesday poem #382 : Jean Van Loon : Off-Season Sun

A tall steel wall blurs
the roar of transports
sear of sirens hustling
crushed bodies. Here
in shadow, south-sunk sun
spears through rusted holes
in the grey corrugation
blazes miniatures
of itself on tree, fence,
wall. Small suns
flash black
when a vehicle passes.


Leaves blind me
with their dying
in the dying light.
Even the hackberry
with its stubborn cling
of shrivelled brown
emits a coppery lustre
in the low sun
of the day’s
and the year’s


Drenched in gold, sun
moves south for winter
returns on occasion
for visits begrudged
and brief.

Jean Van Loon’s [photo credit: Pearl Pirie] first poetry collection Building on River (Cormorant Books, 2018) was a finalist for the Ottawa Book Prize. Her stories, poems, and reviews have appeared in literary magazines in the US and Canada and in Journey Prize Stories.  Facebook @Jean Van Loon; Twitter @JeanVanloon.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, July 21, 2020

Tuesday poem #381 : JoAnna Novak : Spikenard and Sprat

The beauty of the breast at two, at four, at seven, at ten, at two—small hand reining her hair—sharp nails scratching her throat—sure grip fisting her mouth—this chrism in the basement, dim over-seen by three eras of fish, plank-mounted—encaustic gills, razor fins, blessed maw and gaze—Quit, she said, 40xs, do something you love—story nested in every family, even the floundering nuclear—thank you for holding the baby—walking to a waterfall, they spoke—joy spread, so fleecy and dull—cul-de-sac, underpass, she got risky and rash on bridges—looking fondly at each other—breath hitched in gray—called it date, another day—when they returned bacon burned, Al Green, and their baby was so sated in his high chair.

JoAnna Novak is the author of the novel I Must Have You and two books of poetry: Noirmania and Abeyance, North America. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Paris Review, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Atlantic, Fence, Guernica, AGNI, BOMB, and other publications. She is a co-founder of the literary journal and chapbook publisher, Tammy, and teaches in the MFA program at Mount Saint Mary's University in Los Angeles.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan