#poemoftheweek American poet Richard Shelton died recently on 29 November 2022. A poet of the desert, Shelton spent most of his life in the desert of Arizona. In his debut book, The Tattooed Desert, Richard explores the desert and moves backwardly, but the landscape always remains the same. The spiritual desert of his century underlined his writings, and he seeked solace among prison inmates. Richard started a poetry workshop for socially outcast people, and strangely he seem

Editor’s Note:— Our #poemoftheweek, The Lunatic is taken from Charles Simic collection “New and Selected Poems: 1962-2012.” Simic passed on January 9, 2023, but left us with a beautiful oeuvre of poetry, essays, and translations. John Ashbery discussed The Lunatic on a poetry podcast. Ashbery admires “the incredible lightness and, at the same time, toughness” of the poem, and the subtly evocative personifications of the snowflake and of night The Lunatic The same snowflake ke

this week #poemoftheweek is Snowmen by Indian poet Agha Shahid Ali.

This week #poemoftheweek, Arc Magazine is little tree by E. E. Cummings ( 1894–1962). Cummings was a radical experimentalist.

#poemoftheweek is “At Benny the Bungalow” taken from the Arc Prose Poetry Anthology 2022. It is written by an American poet Ron Padgett. I love the idea of soothing melodies, in the narrative tone. A folk song without line breaks! At Benny the Bungalow Once upon a time there was a bungalow named Benny. Inside the bungalow were two chairs, each with a little table next to it. On one table was a vase of red flowers. On the other table was a brown paper bag. Rabbit and her littl

#poemoftheweek is “It is Certainly Yesterday” taken from the Arc prose poetry Anthology 2022, and winner of Arc Poetry Prize 2022, Autumn. It is written by an Australian author Lucy Alexander. Here we see in narrative tone past tucked in postmodernism, effusing out. Metaphors are eye-catching in words, they know how to knit visual fixation. Lucy Alexander I t is Certainly Yesterday It is certainly yesterday because the fig tree is naked now, the ground is smothered with yello

the sparrow steps Did you ever think about that afternoon in Kamikochi, dry twigs snapping underfoot? I held out the skeleton of a cherry leaf, told you autumn was proof that death could be beautiful. You lagged behind as we climbed the hill, paused at the top, out of breath. I laughed, said we were getting older, but I remember now that you didn’t reply. We stopped at a bridge and you sat on the steps, unfastened your boot to shake out a stone. I crouched beside you, watched