Chris Connelly is a poet who lives in New York City.
Fog is the rain’s wife. I’m trembling not from its emptiness, but because it is so full of what passes through the tongue and the feet refuse to describe. Fog covers the scythe in the horizon that offers, to grass like ourselves, the ecstasy of its edge.
I dreamt that I buried a man’s arm in a field so empty and wide anyone who’d seen me kneeling would’ve wondered if I were the broken end of a tree or a man. The arm was warm and it reddened where I pressed my fingers against it. I was sure I hadn’t killed the […]
He sang like a gun. He knew salt and how to coax it from a bundle of rags with a long wooden pole. When he laid down he was so still children bit him. César Vallejo’s arm is dead and so are both of the eyes that starved in the Luxembourg Gardens, wondering at the […]
He was a god, he didn’t need Eurydice. It doesn’t matter that the lavender honey of his too-perfect love hardened, or that he saw the sun from pure darkness. But don’t hate Orpheus, praise him for the space that his failure left between love and the world. That singing means nothing without death is the […]
If you have paid attention to poetry at all during the last 20 years, you have probably heard of Bob Holman, who has long been the neglected art’s most tireless advocate. He is the author of seven books of poetry and the editor of two anthologies, including Aloud: Voices from the Nuyorican Poet’s Café, winner […]