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By Paul Lisicky Culture

If I’m to be serious about my music, or any art, I shouldn’t put it toward anything as problematic as God, but toward ambition, achievement: the only reliable gods.

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Love Poem, Ending

By Courtney Flerlage Poetry

There will be thousands of warm nights

like this one, millions of the beetles, this whole darkened face
of earth erupting in brief constellations.

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By Bruce Bond Poetry

Why pray for the dead if not for this,
for God’s speed on their journey, home,
beneath the burden of the proof they bear.

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Sam’s House

By Pádraig Ó Tuama Essay

I hear, though, how torn he is: pulled toward something that seems to shame him. I think he half hates himself, and—like many men—he turns self-hatred into the hatred of others, especially women.

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Lord Mouth dear

By Shane McCrae Poetry

Lord Mouth dear     Tongue dear Only-Pierceable- Parts to what now shall I compare Thee Lord I am a lonely man     I do not see My children often     to a summer’s day To autumn     Lord     Thou art more peaceable Less difficult to leave to     die in more Relenting though the sun does set     in the sea…

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Lacrimae Rerum

By Christopher Howell Poetry

And they rent their garments and painted their foreheads with ash in supplication and lament. The bright stone of the moon bent down, still upon the water where they stood to the knees in cold reflected stars. Breeze in branches made the sound of women wiping their eyes with paper or breathing in an icy…

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Snow before Sleep: A Reflection in Winter

By Carolyne Wright Poetry

You must desire Nothing. —————Saint John of the Cross Light glows off the drifts like a child’s long gaze upwards. Only the sky is heavy, a drum full of laundry—white, reluctantly tumbling. I don’t need to look out the window to know how the corners of houses give themselves away, like people who’d do anything…

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Reflection upon Psalm 121

By Christopher Howell Poetry

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills. I think of that line again as blossoms blow with rain. Beyond the orchard someone sings. Birds cant their heads to ask if this is the tree they remember, if the refugee finds refuge, truly. Steam rises off the pond; or is it a cordite fog,…

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