Poem of the Week: "catchlight" by Kirby Knowlton

catchlight

BY KIRBY KNOWLTON

under the gervais st. bridge,

our voices domed   like a cathedral.

shoulders dipped in sunlight,

a baptism of sorts.

we came to take pictures. searched

for subjects like graffiti on piers,

what my mother calls angel     rays

in the sky,      that yellowed, humid

glint in your eyes.

maybe i ran out of film     or

my batteries died      because when

we finally found our shot,

you used your iphone.

neither of us have a right to decide

what is holy.                       i told you

i was almost a catholic baby,

a half-lie i wanted to be true

if only because i knew     you would

be disappointed.

there is no glory in either of our

            doubts: your face when

i talked of  prayer, how

walking across that bridge  back to

your car,             i remembered that

what gives a photo life

is artificial light.

Poem of the Week

Poem of the Week by: Keira Zirkle

Mighty Pawns
BY MAJOR JACKSON

If I told you Earl, the toughest kid

on my block in North Philadelphia,

bow-legged and ominous, could beat

any man or woman in ten moves playing white,

or that he traveled to Yugoslavia to frustrate the bearded

masters at the Belgrade Chess Association,

you'd think I was given to hyperbole,

and if, at dinnertime, I took you

into the faint light of his Section 8 home

reeking of onions, liver, and gravy,

his six little brothers fighting on a broken love-seat

for room in front of a cracked flat-screen,

one whose diaper sags it's a wonder

it hasn't fallen to his ankles,

the walls behind doors exposing the sheetrock

the perfect O of a handle, and the slats

of stairs missing where Baby-boy gets stuck

trying to ascend to a dominion foreign to you and me

with its loud timbales and drums blasting down

from the closed room of his cousin whose mother

stands on a corner on the other side of town

all times of day and night, except when her relief

check arrives at the beginning of the month,

you'd get a better picture of Earl's ferocity

after-school on the board in Mr. Sherman's class,

but not necessarily when he stands near you

at a downtown bus-stop in a jacket a size too

small, hunching his shoulders around his ears,

as you imagine the checkered squares of his poverty

and anger, and pray he doe not turn his precise gaze

too long in your direction for fear he blames

you and proceeds to take your Queen.

Major Jackson is a forty-seven year old poet born in Pennsylvania. He has published three books of poetry; his latest book, Holding Company, published in 2010. All three of his books have been finalists in either the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People) Image Award for Outstanding Literature-Poetry or the National Book Critics Circle Award. He is currently working as the Poetry Editor at the Harvard review.

look up more details about Major Jackson’s life and works at http://www.majorjackson.com/

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Poem of the Week

a self portrait: left-minded - Taylor Walker

i live in technicolor.

my world is loud and organic

but i dream in black and white ; in the night

i see : sine waves in the tiger lillies

angles in the spider webs

tangent lines on spring fruits,

calculated flesh and faith.

here is the problem :

one two three people laugh

but sometimes one two three people are not happy

(people are so difficult to analyze)

i ask myself : what are people

if not equations ?

perhaps the great philosophers

were mathematicians

but i am not a philosopher

and i am fraught to understand these people

whose voices cannot be represented graphically

it is difficult when i am awake, you know.