Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Allison Pitinii DavisBefore him, stickers fade across the bumper:
LAST ONE OUT OF TOWN, TURN OFF THE LIGHTS.
The last employer in Youngstown is the weather:
the truck behind him plows grey snow to the roadside
By Kim RobertsKim Roberts performs the poem "The International Fruit of Welcome" at the 2012 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Myra SklarewMyra Sklarew reads "Exchange" at the 2014 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Aaron KreuterWe put in at the edge of the tailings pond,
our canoe loaded with gear and food
to take us on the four-day loop trip,
our nylon tent and stainless steel pots.
By Lee SharkeyA man is lying on a sofa.
The man has been reading.
He has laid down the book beside him.
The man's form is waiting to be occupied.
By Kim RobertsOysters may look to us
like wet floppy tongues,
but there’s no licking.
There’s no touching.
By Julie EnszerThe painters call before we move into the new house. Ma’am, they say—
I am not old enough to be a ma’am, but I don’t correct them—
Ma’am, they say, we smell gas.
I dismiss their concern. I say, Keep painting.
By Joshua WeinerToday is Sunday.
Today, for the first time, they let me go out into the sun.
And I stood there I didn't move,
struck for the first time, the very first time ever:
By Sara BrickmanOwosso, Michigan is cinder blocks
stacked on top of potato cellars and steamrolled
grey. There’s a lot of corn,
By Gretchen Primackand there was a dog, precisely the colors of autumn,
asleep between two trunks by the trail.
But it was a coyote, paws pink