News & Events | Page 302 | The Common | A Modern Sense of Place: Stories, Poems, Essays & Images

Macario

November 1, 2011 Fiction, Issue 02, Issue 02 Fiction, Translation

Translated by ILAN STAVANS and HAROLD AUGENBRAUM

I’m sitting by the sewer waiting for the frogs to come out. Last night, while we were having dinner, they started kicking up a huge ruckus and didn’t stop singing until dawn. That’s what my godmother says, too: that the frogs’ shouting scared her sleep away. And she’d like to sleep now. That’s why she told me to sit here, near the sewer, waiting with a board in my hand so that I can smash to smithereens any frog that hops out … Frogs are green all over, except for their bellies. Toads are black. My godmother’s eyes are black, too. Frogs are good to eat. You shouldn’t eat toads; but I’ve eaten them, too, though you’re not supposed to, and they taste the same as frogs.

Survivor

November 1, 2011 Issue 02, Issue 02 Poetry, Poetry

By JACQUELYN POPE
Whatever possessed you
pursues me. Whatever
unnerved you sings me
to sleep, repeats and repeats,
insists. Whatever composed
you constricts me. Where
you were bright I was blind.

Miss Ohio Teaches You to Drive

November 1, 2011 Issue 02, Issue 02 Poetry, Podcasts & Audio, Poetry

By CORINNA MCCLANAHAN SCHROEDER

Follow the serpentine river roads
toward the Little Miami’s lip. Pass through
the sycamore trunks, their whitewashed
limbs. See how they molt their skins.

Tattoo

November 1, 2011 Issue 02, Issue 02 Poetry, Poetry

By ROSANNA OH
As you undo the cuff links in your shirt,
the waiter taps me on the shoulder
and tells me that we are the last customers.
Your fish is cold.
I am waiting in the restaurant, thinking you have gone to piss—
instead, I order dessert
as you press yourself against the sink,
scratching at my name,
scouring me with water and soap. 

Religion

November 1, 2011 Issue 02, Issue 02 Poetry, Poetry

By CRALAN KELDER
either you feel it or you don’t and I don’t feel a thing, nothing at all,
except I do feel a great warmth standing in the window in the front
of the sun and I think how fucking great it is to be alive I could almost
cry standing there watching the trees pollinating each other

Boys

November 1, 2011 Issue 02, Issue 02 Poetry, Poetry

By CRALAN KELDER
when the boys came over
theo with his banjo david
brought his voice we set
some poems to music
berrigan’s Train Ride &
the one about his old house
that he would miss and

California

November 1, 2011 Issue 02, Issue 02 Poetry, Poetry

By CRALAN KELDER
During this past visit to California, I visited a friend who has been incarcerated since 1985 – for 25 years. In prison, he isn’t allowed to physically handle money, so when we take a break from walking laps around the visiting room and get in line by the vending machines to treat ourselves to hot drinks, he has to stay behind a red line with  OUT OF BOUNDS

Paired Leaves

November 1, 2011 Issue 02, Issue 02 Poetry, Poetry

By JENNIFER HABEL
I have not been refined in the furnace of affliction
as some have been, but have rather been preserved
with sugar than brine. . . .
—Anne Bradstreet 
From three thousand feet the bee smells flowers.
Milkweed thick with them

Special Needs

November 1, 2011 Issue 02, Issue 02 Poetry, Poetry

By MAJOR JACKSON
Only the skin runs ahead like a spruced-up
dream from which I never awake.
What really exists, no one knows.
In exchange for shook foil,
Hopkins killed the agnostic in him.
I want to kill the polygamist in me.

Cries and Whispers

November 1, 2011 Issue 02, Issue 02 Poetry, Poetry

By MAJOR JACKSON
Each day I forget something, but happy
I never forget to wake
to the bright corollas of summer
mornings. I quietly lay in the jury
box of my bed and listen to
the counter-arguments of birds grow