Two Poems by Al Ortolani
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
7h ago
Confetti Cannons My favorite television anchor takes cover below the media stage, arms protectively over his colleagues, the camera on its swivel, the fountain, the hill to Liberty Memorial. My phone begins to fill with texts until I can account for my family, all except for my oldest grandson. He’s sixteen with a girlfriend at his side. I hope to catch them jaywalking Pershing Avenue towards Crown Center. Both are athletes and can run without tiring. They have drilled for active shooters since grade school. When my grandson learned to walk, I let him climb the stadium wall at the university ..read more
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Two Poems by Victoria Nordlund
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
2d ago
Wh_ _l of Fortun_ Back in ‘81, you viewed Wheel devoutly with Grandma in her in-law suite attached to your living room, on a couch that smelled like cabbage. The remote clicked when she changed the channel. Back when Vanna was 24 & still turned the letter tiles. Back when Pat was 35 & you thought everyone was ancient. You lost interest somewhere in your 20’s, but Mom and Dad continued tuning in at top volume, solving puzzles for two decades more in their condo. & Pat & Vanna were forever smiling widely at 7:00 pm & you swore they’d never get old. & Mom never turned the ..read more
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Self-love Letter by Kit Willett
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
2d ago
Self-love Letter I love the way you laugh when nobody is looking. I love your voice, that rich and mellow timbre as it searches for the right note. I love your voice,                   that melodic, handwritten style that, at times, can be both casual and profound. I am proud of your creativity; I know you work for it.                   I am proud of you for not giving up on so many things, and I am proud of you for ..read more
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Nature and Ecopoetry Workshop with Grant Clauser
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
3d ago
Nature and Ecopoetry Workshop Instructor: Grant Clauser Day: Wednesday, July 10 Time: 6:00-8:00pm (Eastern) Price: $25 >>> Buy Tickets <<< Nature and Ecopoetry Workshop Nature has long been used as setting and inspiration for poems, and as metaphors for exploring the personal and social issues. This workshop will explore how the non-human world can provide language, metaphors, and models for examining our place in the universe. We’ll look at classic and contemporary models, discuss theories and poetic practices for using nature as a subject in poetry, and work together on som ..read more
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Two Poems by J.R. Solonche
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
4d ago
I WANT TO WRITE ABOUT WHAT I DON’T KNOW I want to write about what I don’t know. I want to write a sequence of sonnets, for instance, on the mysteries of the mind, one for each mystery or so. I want to write about what I don’t know. On botany, macroeconomics, quantum gravity, I want to compose elaborately complex odes. I want to write about what I don’t know. The secret language of deaf Babylonians, let’s say, or how nocturnal plants use moonlight to grow. I want to write about what I don’t know. An epic about my heroic great ancestral father and how he found my great ancestral mother in the R ..read more
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The Portal of the Page by Daniel Seifert
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
4d ago
The Portal of the Page We are all time travelers, though most of us don’t know it. We place one day before the next like the footsteps of a drunkard. Strapped into the future while now sneaks past, unseen. Something must be done, and can: a journal is an anchor. Its function, to bend your neck to yesterday and ask what needs setting down. Do this. 1. To feel ink flow and leave a screen untapped, if only for a moment. 2. To interrogate what matters and let it feel the texture of a waiting page. 3. To look back (how could you forget that night, that storm, that drink that killed its bubbles, tha ..read more
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After class by Elizabeth Joy Levinson
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
5d ago
After class Cleaning the science classroom, I came across a bin of stethoscopes. I never have before, so I slipped one over my head and was immediately struck by how loud the world became. I placed it over my heart, imagined my mother, a nurse, listening to so many heart stories and then, coming home and listening again. How little room there was for thought while my blood rushed in and out, the way a wave knocks you down, the sound you hear when you are trying to right your body, bring your head above the water, how rarely we stop to hear it even though it is a song always playing. * Elizabet ..read more
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Span by Jeff McRae
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
6d ago
Span She was there, silent as a rag doll. I unpinned her calendar from the wall. A busy year until early May— a hair appointment the very day someone took her out in a bag. Years were crumbs, absence sound. She didn’t say a word. I heard her everywhere. You watched from the window but she didn’t appear. When we arrived and opened the door for a second I believed she’d just run to the store. She wasn’t coming back. Or hadn’t completely gone, I couldn’t tell. With my finger I upset the little bells on the porch, expecting to hear her call my name. Instead, the kids wanted to know— Dad, can we wa ..read more
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Two Poems by Donna Hilbert
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
1w ago
This Boat             for TE Were you two or three? Strapped to my lap in the kayak I paddled into the wetlands past the sign that read “Go Back.” Herons, pelicans, cormorants flew close enough to touch, and sun dazzled the murk below. “In this boat, we can go anywhere,” you said, then pressed your cheek to my breast, and slept. You were almost grown, when you chose the unknown water. If there were signs ahead, I failed to heed, or even see, them. * New That time in the park at the end of the street our dogs off leash and we are off l ..read more
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Of Havens by Tricia Knoll
ONE ART: a journal of poetry
by ONE ART
1w ago
Of Havens             …the wide open door/Means nothing if it cannot be closed.             – May Sarton Rock caves vent smoke, baby cries and boasts, but my love’s home has windows to see ins and outs – stops for barefoot still-point. Sun bounces on glass, fingers follow rain trails. Doors crack for walk-aways from chores and overhearing hard stories not my own. This leaving-for-living until I come back to shed my shoes. Within open and closed, I know where you are, what you ..read more
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