Dispatches | Page 3 | The Common

The Bee-Eaters

September 20, 2023 Dispatches

Liverpool

The teeth of the excavator are wet. The cage opens, hovers, and grips a mouthful—some floor, some outer wall, some window frame, the glass disappearing with a tiny, tinkling sound.

Now, suddenly, the bedroom of the upstairs flat is revealed. A ragged cut-away, leaving just one perfect wall, wallpapered. Poppies on a purple field. The room, when it was a room, was probably small and ordinary; now, illuminated, it is the envy of all other rooms, the ultimate mezzanine. Light pours in from everywhere and the window frames blue sky.

Two Poems by Liza Katz Duncan

September 6, 2023 Dispatches

By LIZA KATZ DUNCAN

Raritan Bayshore, New Jersey

At the Old Aeromarine Site

Into the Woods

August 23, 2023 Dispatches

By ANNE P. BEATTY

Stone Mountain, North Carolina

A mile into the woods, I am always slightly afraid. Fear’s lace knots the cuff of an otherwise lovely afternoon. Nights, when I peek out of the tent, the moon is a bright friend too far away to help.

Four Country Sonnets (with Attachments)

July 26, 2023 Dispatches

By G.G. HARROW

Eastern Kentucky

After Terrance Hayes and Wanda Coleman

Attachment 1

country music is Black — indigenous — immigrant — almost successfully paved over — i made these poems from 36 common words in top-selling country songs since the ’90s according to a concert ticket corporation

Wonder

June 28, 2023 Dispatches

By DARLENE WEST

A black bear faces the camera close-up and head-on. Its eyes glow white. The image was taken in black-and-white night vision. The frame indicates that it was captured at 12:34 AM on September 26, 2019. The upper-right corner indicates the temperature and moon phase.

British Columbia, Canada

In the mornings, I like to follow our border collie on his nose-to-the-ground rounds: out to the creek at the edge of our land; up to the vegetable garden near the foothills; across the back yard. Sometimes, the hair on the back of his neck stands up.

Our farm land in southern British Columbia borders a mountainous wilderness. My husband and I find curiosities on our property all the time: peaches picked from our trees; tunnels under our fences; grape cluster stems, cleaned of berries. Now and then, feeding our fascination with the unknown: strips of grass, chiseled out of the lawn, coiled like jelly rolls. What roams around here at night after we turn out the lights?

To My Ghost :: Float

June 14, 2023 Dispatches

By SEBASTIAN MERRILL

South Bristol, Maine. Pictured is a large body of water with small waves. Blue skies are above and land can be seen in the distance.

Little Thrumcap Island, South Bristol, Maine

Slaughterhouse-Vibe

May 31, 2023 Dispatches

By LISA ROSENBERG

an image of a woman among old artifacts. the woman's back is to the photographer and she is facing the open door

Hydra, Greece

There are no streetlights between the old slaughterhouse and the edge of town. The road that links them feels longer than its few hundred barren meters, proceeding above a rocky slope that ends in channel water—the former landing place of blood and entrails, arriving by chute while dogfish gathered. Six nights per week, a young woman makes her way along this route, tiny phone-light in hand, walking toward the main village on the Greek island of Hydra. Her name is Marina. I’ve known her since she was a child.

Still Life 3: The Suburbs

May 17, 2023 Dispatches

By KELLY McMASTERS

Long Island, NY

Interior of a silver Volvo wagon, back door pockets stuffed with Candy Ring wrappers, pencils, and rocks; I am looking in the rear-view mirror or over my right shoulder into the backseat, my left hand on the wheel, right hand on the seat back next to me. Two small boys, both with eyes the exact color as my own, stare back at me, pleading or explaining or demanding or questioning or laughing or crying or sulking or fighting or trying to hide. The car smells vaguely Cheerio-like. No matter the music, the soundtrack is chatter and the rhythmic kicking of a seat back. They also like punching each other’s seat warmer buttons with their feet to be annoying.

Two Poems: ”Trenches at ShowBiz, Kuwait City” and ”Coming Home”

March 1, 2023 Dispatches

By RANA TAHIR

Kuwait City, Kuwait

Trenches at ShowBiz, Kuwait City

Dispatch from Moscow, Idaho

February 15, 2023 Dispatches

By AFTON MONTGOMERY

Moscow, ID

The neighbor children are in the Evangelical cult that Vice and The Guardian wrote about last year. They’re not allowed to speak to us, which is a thing no one has ever said aloud but is true, nonetheless. This town is full of true things that no one says aloud because we can’t or wouldn’t dare or because no one would believe us anyway.

Marilynne Robinson, I think, or maybe Ruth Ozeki, wrote something about how the wheat here is green before it’s yellow and everyone from elsewhere gets to selectively forget that and picture us golden and glowing year-round.

All posts tagged: Dispatches

The Bee-Eaters

Two Poems by Liza Katz Duncan

Into the Woods

Four Country Sonnets (with Attachments)

Wonder

To My Ghost :: Float

Slaughterhouse-Vibe

Still Life 3: The Suburbs

Two Poems: ”Trenches at ShowBiz, Kuwait City” and ”Coming Home”

Dispatch from Moscow, Idaho

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