Poetry
The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out …
My agent says Los Angeles will call. My broker says to sell without delay. My doctor says the spot is very small. My lover says get tested right away. My congressman says yes, he truly …
The evening began a little after eight in the bar at Sanborn’s on Revolución where eight poets gathered for drinks and chisme (gossip). Around midnight one of them suggested we move on to El Lugar …
“We have variously independently chosen a week of poems and worked collaboratively. All three of us read books and journals that we receive from publishers. We try to put poems together that hang together….”
Crazy-quilt patches of somber and giddy sound formed the literal fabric of my tender world. I grew up in homes where the verbal jam session was a floating and usually festive fixture. Clusters of people …
I was a runaway when I was 15. Ran from Chicago to New York. Got off the Greyhound bus at four in the morning, armed with a guitar named Beulah, a canvas knapsack heavy with …
Compiled by Sue Greenberg A number of San Diegans were called on the telephone and asked to recite, on the spur of the moment, any poem they might know by heart. Some were up to …
"I worked for the city engineering department for years, writing manuals and things — and when I got the first inkling of a poem, I’d come home and write down some ideas or the first few lines."
When Frank Morris talks about going to the city — and he tries not to even think about it — it’s San Diego he is referring to, though it’s a two-hour drive to that city …