I took a drive out to The Gallimaufry Goat Farm and was
struck by the vast assortment of goat life in one place.
Goats who’d go shock-still when startled, like a bolt
through the head, fall stiff as taxidermy to the ground.
Podcasts & Audio
Tree of Life
By BRUCE BOND
After Terrence Malick
When the dinosaur, at the dawn of mercy,
lifts his hoof from the throat of his rival
whose pulse you see, whose eye tells you seas
have parted into the ken of separate selves—
Contributors in Conversation: Valerie Duff and Leslie McGrath
In this episode of The Common’s Contributors in Conversation podcast, Issue 07 contributors Valerie Duff and Leslie McGrath read and discuss their poems “Folk Magic” and “In Praise of Prey.”
Contributors in Conversation: Zeina Hashem Beck and Jaydn DeWald
In this episode of The Common’s Contributors in Conversation podcast, Issue 07 contributors Zeina Hashem Beck and Jaydn DeWald read and discuss their poems “Your Parents’ House” and “Dissolution (Or, Landscape With Martyr).”
Contributors in Conversation: Jennifer Acker and Stephen O’Connor
In this episode of The Common’s Contributors in Conversation podcast, editor-in-chief Jennifer Acker and Stephen O’Connor discuss “The Common Statement” and “Con” from Issue 07.
Audio: “Basta” by Sara London
Sara London reads her poem “Basta” from Issue 09 of The Common.
Contributors in Conversation: Leigh Newman and Tyler Sage
In this episode of The Common’s Contributors in Conversation podcast, Issue 06 contributors Leigh Newman and Tyler Sage discuss “Big Not-So-Bad Wolves” and “They Called It Shooting Then.”
Bone Almanac
That black telephone would ring and ring,
fixed to its wall. It was a ring that roamed
the mind, while night drummed down
its list of last and lost events, circadian
paths that tangled where they tried to pass,
crossed and uncrossed hours.
Some Proof of Love
Dear little day later,
Can’t you keep up?
There is no going back
so don’t insist. The view’s bound
by the block, fenced for now
but then will come
and new alarms
will set off and stop.
The First Last Light in the Sky
Not a sunrise rose, half itself and half
The horizon, dragging its bulk, its lights
And salts, from under shifting sheets of sea,
Leveling the sky into shallow moats
Of sounds, flecks of birds, beginning again
To believe all brief and sideways dreaming