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Go to homepageHuman in the LoopJonathan Harrell’s Commonplace Book
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In the insomnia of forgotten drains,
in the sewers interrupted by the silence of sewage.
Not far from the puddles unable to keep a cloud,
lost eyes,
a broken ring,
or a trampled star. The Dead Angels by Rafael Alberti, translated from the Spanish by John Murillo, excerpt
“When you grow up, my son,
and read the volumes of Arabic poetry,
you will know that the word and the tear are sisters
and that the Arabic poem
is but a tear shed from the tips of the fingers” A Lesson in Drawing by Nizar Qabbani, translated from the Arabic by Rana Bitar, excerpt
All around in the low halls
hurricane lamps are being lit.
To look in the windows
you will have to crawl. The Barrens by Karen Solie, excerpt
Ignore the case
Of paradise:
A beast hiding
In a cave
Still feels
The sunless rain. Envoi by Aaron Fagan, excerpt
who are you? do I know you? because I do
that sometimes I put on my blue dress &
go to church & kneel when the priest says
but when it nears its finish & communion
comes it is bitter on my lips & I don’t want it
I lick it up anyway I hold in my burst heart
I say “yes I know you” I walk slowly home Kneeling by Francesca Kritikos, excerpt
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future. On the Beach at Night Alone by Walt Whitman, excerpt
A dolphin falls in love,
And there are a million
Pregnancies in the minds of men.
A salmon’s leap
Is a philosopher’s insight.
Cosmologies are born
When statues dance.
A poet’s thought
Unfurls unknown constellations. Wild by Ben Okri, excerpt
Since last night, not one of us, try as we might, has been able to leave this room. The Exterminating Angel
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So. Again we are defeated. Seven Samurai
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What if the land had its own language?
No alphabet but steady drone
of grasslands, groan of mountains,
drought-fire’s scream—a drawn-out cry,
hiss of rain, simmer of seeds
stirring restless in the soil
pure presence and process
breaking into the place
made new by cataclysm. National Forest by Alison Hawthorne Deming, excerpt
The rain consumed the people
and left them with empty streets, mud-stained
walls, and roads black with flooding.
There are no ghosts here. They drained away
with the ebbing waters. What is left
is the soft wind off the river and the hum
that comes with the loss of all memory. After the Deluge by Kwame Dawes, excerpt