Poetry

As many readers know, Poetry magazine was founded in Chicago, and despite our magazine’s international platform and global curiosities, we stay a uniquely Chicago endeavor. The editorial work we do is propelled by the sounds and architectures of the city because this city is inescapable. We can’t help but respond to the way streets like Superior, Halsted, Damen, Division, Lake Shore, and the lake itself are conduits for Chicago’s attitudes and expectations. This city, as icebound and frigid as it is this month, remains poetically in tune and undeniably hip despite the proliferation of puffers and parkas. The saxophonist Cannonball Adderley could have been talking about these area codes when he said, “Hipness isn’t a state of mind. It’s a fact of life. You don’t just decide you’re hip.” Chicago…

It’s complicated, my relationship statuswith progress. I often prefer the “before” picture. The futureis where I’m going only because I have no choice, because timemoves in one direction, dragging a bit of itself behind like meat.An unseen hand keeps tugging it—time’s rabbit leg,time’s hunk of red venison— just out of reach. Did I just describethe future as bait? Am I strung along? I know, when I arrive there,it won’t be there. Won’t be that. It’ll be now, the way it isright now. And again. Refresh, refresh, refresh. The beforespile up behind me. It’s now again.…

The day is winter bright. I blink against it.Each time the sun glints in my eyes,each time I close my lids & let them go orange & freckled with light,my mind files it into a folderthat contains every other time it’s happened before: folders nestedinside folders going back, I imagine,to one morning standing in my crib, waiting for my mother to reach down& lift me out, the sun keeping mecompany until her arms appeared. In the file: sun, sun_2, sun_3,sun_75, sun_700. Each a documentI can return to & open, even revising old experience with new thinking.As if the eye has its own memory—not the mind’s eye but the eye’s mind— cataloging material it claims as its own.Cataloging as long as I live. Sun_7000,sun_final, sun_final_revised, sun_final_final. “The Before Picture” and “Document”…

My mother kept a chest of lettersmy father sent me from prison.She didn’t let me see themuntil I was old enough to readprofanity. Every letter, writtenin all caps with blue inkblotting out every other word.He signed each letter: Love,Shy Boogie. That was the namehe claimed he got from the Bronx,known back then as the Boogie Down,where he bought the crackhe’d sell back home.I don’t remember exactly howmany years my father spent insideand I never bothered himwith such questions. ButI once asked my mother how longmy father was in prison beforehe got out on parole. With an attitudeyou’d expect from someonetired of talking about that man,she snapped, not long enough.…

19.6.1914 Sabio é o que se contenta com o espectaculo do mundo,E ao beber nem recordaQue já bebeu na vida,Para quem tudo é novoE immarcessivel sempre. Corôem-no pampanos, ou heras, ou rosas voluteis,Elle sabe que a vidaPassa por ele e tantoCorta á flôr como a elleDe Atropos a thesoura. Mas elle sabe fazer que a côr do vinho esconda isto,Que o seu sabôr orgiacoApague o gosto ás horas,Como a uma voz chorandoO passar das bacchantes. E elle espera, contente quasi e bebedor tranquilo,E apenas desejandoNum desejo mal tidoQue a abominavel ondaO não molhe tão cedo.…

Translated from the Portuguese 19 June 1914 Wise is the man who contents himself with the spectacle of the world,Who, when he drinks, has no memoryOf ever having drunk before,For whom all is newAnd forever imperishable. Crown him with vines or ivy or with twining roses,He knows that life passesBy him and through himAnd that both he and the flowerWill fall to Atropos’s scissors. He knows, though, how to conceal this fact with red wine,And uses its orgiastic savorTo blunt the taste of the passing hours,Like a voice grieving forThe passing of the bacchantes. And he waits, this tranquil drinker, feeling almost content,With just one wish,If indeed it is a wish,That it does not break over himToo soon, that odious wave. Translation copyright: Copyright (c) 2026 by Margaret Jull Costa…