For every lean brown cow, a makeshift shack for shelter
made of splintered planks and poles,
crowned with dented, rusted tin.
For every bamboo leaf, at dawn, one bead of dew,
crystal clear, and empty”open
like a lens to let light in.
For every petal floating on the surface of the pool,
shadows trembling on smooth stones
underneath still water’s skin.
And for each wretch who falters, and falls beside the road,
an hour of sleep, and dreams”no matter
what he’s done, or where he’s been,
no matter where he says he goes,
or what on earth he thinks he knows.
Last Call for Submissions to the First Things Poetry Prize
The third annual First Things Poetry Prize is open for submissions until June 30. James Matthew Wilson is this year’s outside…
Jonathan Swift’s Savage Indignation
Miranda: “O wonder! . . . / O brave new world / That has such people in’t!”Prospero:…
Suffering Bereft of Despair
One of the most moving portraits of human faith and endurance I know spilled from the quill…