Poetry – Page 61 – Michigan Quarterly Review

Poetry

“Indian Pipe,” by G.C. Waldrep

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poetry by G. C. Waldrep, excerpted from MQR 53:2, Spring 2014

I came to love late,

as in a forest clearing

one walks at dusk

& spies, in the

needlemass, that

pale clump, un-

suspected, not there

just a few hours

before: indian pipe,

“Indian Pipe,” by G.C. Waldrep Read More »

poetry by G. C. Waldrep, excerpted from MQR 53:2, Spring 2014

I came to love late,

as in a forest clearing

one walks at dusk

& spies, in the

needlemass, that

pale clump, un-

suspected, not there

just a few hours

before: indian pipe,

“Henry Ford (1904),” by Campbell McGrath

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*poetry by Campbell McGrath* From curiosity comes dynamism, from obstinacy drive.

From the drawing board, from tinkering, from the machine shop in the old barn come pistons and cams.

“Henry Ford (1904),” by Campbell McGrath Read More »

*poetry by Campbell McGrath* From curiosity comes dynamism, from obstinacy drive.

From the drawing board, from tinkering, from the machine shop in the old barn come pistons and cams.

Excerpts from “Our War”

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Supermen sleep in transit every time—
no guarantees of when we’ll sleep again, or if,
so we tuck chin to flak jacket and light out
for anywhere else. We wake bitter and panicked,
plane dropping too sharply for Stinger missiles, look up,
read the taut, terrible smiles.

Excerpts from “Our War” Read More »

Supermen sleep in transit every time—
no guarantees of when we’ll sleep again, or if,
so we tuck chin to flak jacket and light out
for anywhere else. We wake bitter and panicked,
plane dropping too sharply for Stinger missiles, look up,
read the taut, terrible smiles.

Poetry by Cleopatra Mathis

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INTERSTICE

1. Between Grief and Sorrow

Grief staggers around the house

some thief has emptied.

It wants to tell you everything

all over again; blame is the story

grief hammers, hammering until your leg shakes,

your right foot won’t stop tapping.

It’s a dance for the shaken,

strung out with waiting, and now look

who’s back to guard the door:

Poetry by Cleopatra Mathis Read More »

INTERSTICE

1. Between Grief and Sorrow

Grief staggers around the house

some thief has emptied.

It wants to tell you everything

all over again; blame is the story

grief hammers, hammering until your leg shakes,

your right foot won’t stop tapping.

It’s a dance for the shaken,

strung out with waiting, and now look

who’s back to guard the door:

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