Ted Kooser's poem "The Corpse of an Old Woman" can be found in Vol. 251, No. 6 (Nov., 1966), p.14, http://www.jstor.org/stable/25116500.
THE CORPSE OF AN OLD WOMAN
It has been lying on a braided rug
with a teacup in its hand since yesterday
at supper-time, and the neighbor-ladies shrug
and say "She lets the lights burn night and day."
Prayer for My New Daughter
After Yeats, and inspired by an attack on transgender students using a “bathroom with urinals” at a college in the northeastern US.
A soul in chrysalis, in first agonized molt,
must choose: LADIES, or MENS.
For some—for you—these rooms are fraught,
an open field...
Note from the author: The poem is set in the Midwest during the period of western migration, but it intends to make the reader consider how food and culture intertwine on several levels, from family to country. Perhaps it's good to remind ourselves of this linkage during this time of year when culture, family, and food are so prominent.
Recipes You Need
To Make a Cake Without Butter
Melt down a piece of salt pork, strain it through muslin, let cool, and then use...
Sort of a strange experience on the writing of these two poems. I was an avid reader of Anna Akhmatova’s poetry, but it’s been years since I’ve read her work. The other night I had a dream about her: I was in a dark café—probably the Stray Dog, a name that always stuck with me in the biography, where Russian poets would meet and read their poems. Akhmatova stood up on the stage. I was trying desperately to make out the words of the poem, but I couldn’t hear her. The only thing I could hear...
A note from the author: "The Lunar Year" was inspired by reading a list of names for the moon in the various months. I chose the names that I found most intriguing and spun off from there. Many of the moon...
Andrea Potos's poem, "Each Self" won the James Hearst Poetry Prize in 2004. Her poem is featured in issue 289.2, Spring 2004.
Notes from the author: As my daughter is now on the verge of leaving for college far away from home, I reflect again on what she inspired in me when I wrote this poem years ago: all the invisible, infinitesimal, yet totally inescapable changes that propel us forward, willingly or not, into new lives.
All of us know a person too-dearly in love with his or her own saga. The world’s assembled triumphs and tragedies pale before the splendor of his homemade spinach omelet or the ouch of her stubbed toe. No matter what chronicle one giddily spins, he’ll call forth a responding story pay-grades higher than one’s minimum wage tale. My family refers to this sort as a “one-upper” – someone whose lion-killing, blonde joke-telling, soup kitchen volunteerism, bedroom...