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"On Being Asked To Write A Poem Against The War In Vietnam" by Hayden Carruth

Well I have and in fact more than one and I’ll tell you this too

I wrote one against Algeria that nightmare and another against

Korea and another against the one I was in

and I don’t remember how many against the three

when I was a boy Abyssinia Spain and Harlan County

and not one breath was restored to one

shattered throat mans womans or childs not one not

one but death went on and on never looking aside

except now and then with a furtive half-smile to make sure I was noticing.

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from the malady of death by marguerite duras

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from away! away! by jana beňová

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"Their Lonely Betters" by W.H. Auden

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade To all the noises that my garden made, It seemed to me only proper that words Should be withheld from vegetables and birds A robin with no Christian name ran through The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew, And rustling flowers for some third party waited To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying, There was not one which knew that it was dying Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters Who count some days and long for certain letters; We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep: Words are for those with promises to keep.

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"poetry as insurgent art", lawrence ferlinghetti

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"toward a provisional avant-garde" from a handbook of disappointed fate, anne boyer

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"the true encounter", edna st. vincent millay

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‘Valse’ by Mauro de leonardo [Nel Frattempo, 2006]

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"For That He Looked Not Upon Her" by George Gascoigne

You must not wonder, though you think it strange, To see me hold my louring head so low, And that mine eyes take no delight to range About the gleams which on your face do grow. The mouse which once hath broken out of trap Is seldom ’ticèd with the trustless bait, But lies aloof for fear of more mishap, And feedeth still in doubt of deep deceit. The scorchèd fly, which once hath ’scaped the flame, Will hardly come to play again with fire, Whereby I learn that grievous is the game Which follows fancy dazzled by desire: So that I wink or else hold down my head, Because your blazing eyes my bale have bred.

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from knots by r.d. laing

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“My Girl” | The Jesus and Mary Chain

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from deaf republic by ilya kaminsky

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“function”, by elizabeth kerr (age 9) from the 2022 rattle young poets anthology