Dispatches | Page 8 | The Common

A Ceremony for Yellow House

April 10, 2019 Dispatches

High Plains, West Texas

The West Texas winds blew heavy dust that clung to my eyelashes, and a bit of sand got into my eyes. It was a cool day in mid-summer, but Lubbock’s never-ending parking lots gave off residual heat that made me feel like I was baking. Lubbock has too many parking lots. Driving through town, lot after lot passing my window, made me long for the dull-green landscape of the plains only fifteen minutes away. I kept on down Broadway, past the empty lots where houses once stood, past the empty downtown (even though it was only 4:30pm), past the old segregated part of town that always brings out a bone-deep sadness in me, eventually making it past the last highway. I could see the NTS tower in my rearview mirror. Mac Davis’s song was right, I really like seeing Lubbock in my rearview mirror. I could have appreciated it more if it didn’t leave so much dust in my eye.

Dispatches from Queens

March 27, 2019 Dispatches

By KC TROMMER

These poems appear in We Call Them Beautiful, out now from Diode Editions.

Cleveland Hopkins International to LaGuardia, 2018

Queens, NY

The Camera Obscura at Castelo São Jorge

January 30, 2019 Dispatches

By KRISTINA FAUST

Lisbon, Portugal

Cirque of Dreams

January 2, 2019 Dispatches

By LINDA KEYES

Annapurna Sanctuary, Nepal

In mid-May 1999, alone on my last morning in the Annapurna Sanctuary, I tramped along the moraine below Annapurna Base Camp. The sun reflected off Machapuchare, the distinctive fish tail peak, at the bottom of the valley. Tharpu Chuli flanked me on the left, its 6000 meter crown glistening with fresh snow. No clouds covered Annapurna’s summits behind me or obscured the immense sky. The trail meandered from 13,500 feet to 12,000 feet. The low-oxygen air, like a drug, rendered the sapphire sky in vivid contrast to the silver cliffs, the white snow, and the wild crocuses that burst from south-facing patches in happy pink dots.

Holiday in Queens

December 19, 2018 Dispatches

By SUSAN HARLAN

Queens, New York

1. On the W, December 23

When I’m back in the city and on the subway, I tend to look at my book or at my feet and the feet of other people. I note the different kinds of shoes, their colors and states of wear.

Today is December 23, so there are shopping bags by all the shoes, held fast between lower legs and sometimes kicked out of the way of people coming and going. Bags filled with brown boxes and shoe boxes and stacks of folded clothes.

I’m sitting down, and a man stands above me with his back to me. Under his left arm is a cardboard box that says 6H on the side in thick permanent marker. He never turns around, and I never see him, but I know that he lives in 6H.

A Cave for Mithra

December 12, 2018 Dispatches

By MOJGAN GHAZIRAD

When I heard ancient Iranians worshipped Mithra in subterranean caverns, my first reaction was: why would anyone worship Mithra in total darkness? Mithra, the god of heavenly light, who goes over the earth, all her breadth over, after the setting of the sun, touches both ends of this wide, round earth, whose ends lie afar, and surveys everything that is between the earth and the heavens.[1] In Mithraic belief, the God Mithra slays a bull to move the world and enlighten it with love. Followers pray and purify their souls in order to ascend to their heavenly place of origin.

“Nature of Exile” and “Mary”

December 5, 2018 Dispatches, Translation

Poems by IGOR BARRETO

Translated from Spanish by ROWENA HILL

These poems will appear in a forthcoming edition titled The Blind Plain, published by Tavern Books.

Los Llanos, Venezuela

Rustic Impression

November 21, 2018 Dispatches

By SUSAN COMNINOS

This poem is an ekphrastic response to the above painting, Chickens!, by Marion Clarke.

Near the Mountains of Mourne, County Down, Northern Ireland

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The First Day of Fall

November 7, 2018 Dispatches

By SHANE CASHMAN

Highland Falls, NY

A black ant walks across the kitchen counter and I try to flick it away. It dodges my finger, but it’s miscalculated how close it is to the edge and falls off the cliff of the counter and into the dog bowl. It struggles to swim. The ant is dying the way I always die in my worst dreams. In nightmares I sink to the bottom of the lake near my childhood home.

Hot Potato

October 10, 2018 Dispatches

By LEATH TONINO

Colorado Springs, Colorado

His business card is cut from the corner of an old photo. One side is the chopped image of a carpeted floor, a screen door, a chubby toddler’s left arm and hand. I flip the card over.

All posts tagged: Dispatches

A Ceremony for Yellow House

Dispatches from Queens

The Camera Obscura at Castelo São Jorge

Cirque of Dreams

Holiday in Queens

A Cave for Mithra

“Nature of Exile” and “Mary”

Rustic Impression

The First Day of Fall

Hot Potato

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