I joined X because I wanted to share my translations from Sanskrit. But many of my favorites appeared before my fall from grace. I thought I might occasionally post some of them. Here is a poem by Bhartrihari that originally appeared in Snakeskin Poetry 308 July 2023.

In honor of Rita Dove's birthday, we delved into our archives and dug up this gem from Awards V (Volume 27). Stay tuned for Nimrod's redesign, inspired by our early issues!

Do this—I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity—and you should do it too! Even if you don’t think you’ll have a chance (I thought so too), apply!

No one can match Amit Majmudar for forward momentum and hairpin-turns-at-speed in a poem. Here are the opening lines of his 🔥 poem "Prologue to an Unwritten Rewrite of Shakespeare's Coriolanus" in NVR 1.1. Full poem at link. newversereview.com/1-1-amit-majmu…

“If you’ll walk across my camera, I will flash the world your story, I will pay you more than money, Ingrid Bergman… Not by pennies dimes nor quarters, But with happy sons and daughters, And they’ll sing around Stromboli, Ingrid Bergman…”

I think often of the last few lines from this Gwendolyn Brooks poem about singer Paul Robeson: That we are each other's harvest: we are each other's business: we are each other's magnitude and bond.

I am pleased to announce that Maya Clubine is the winner of the first 12-Hour Sonnet Contest for her poem "Sun Inside My Brain." You can read it at pfpoi.blogspot.com/2024/08/winnin…

Nathan Hoks

#Odesa Today is Odesa Day. My favorite city in the world; the land of my ancestors and my childhood love. Happy birthday, gorgeous, delicious, cheeky place. And, #OdesaIsUkraine

"Look up: blazing chrysanthemums in rose shriek into bloom above the Tilt-a-Whirls, hang for a blink, then die in smoky swirls." Maryann Corbett, "State Fair Fireworks, Labor Day." brinkerhoffpoetry.org/poems/state-fa…

Tremendously lithe trimeter. The stamping on the ground as a message to the transformed speaker’s mother shakes the reader who knows that Gunn’s mother took her own life when he was fifteen.

“Only let it form within his hands once more - The moment cradled like a brandy glass. Sitting alone in the empty dining hall… ” Louis MacNeice, died 3 September 1963 #louismacneice #poem

Join (from anywhere!) writer & translator Jenny Croft (THE EXTINCTION OF IRENA REY) & writer & translator @hannahswebster for FOUND IN TRANSLATION, mod. by award-winning news anchor @dianestern10, Thu, Sep 5, 7pm EDT. Virtual. Free! Sign up at salemlitfest.org.

Very grateful to The Windhover for including a poem of mine in its beautiful new issue. A personal one, a sad one. Sometimes you can’t explain without making things worse, so you say nothing, then write a poem about it a decade later. Right?

Their laughter was like the stridulation of the ghosts of grasshoppers. ― John Collier, 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦

The gods have spoken, the gods said nothing New poems The Baffler thebaffler.com/poems/bracket-…

One feels the urge to counter such images with historical depictions of the difficulties actual US mothers faced during the 20th century, but as this Los Angeles Review of Books article about Lange’s “Migrant Mother” shows, even documentary photos could use context: lareviewofbooks.org/article/migran…

A clear-headed patient engagement with my work through one poem The Guardian That I was astonished is part of the darkness that dominates Light nonetheless (and disabled comments) theguardian.com/books/article/…

Clive James, not terribly impressed with what Lindsay Anderson did with an Alan Bennett piece, comes up with this line about a sense of humour. It's just made me catch my breath slightly.

“Museum,” from James Womack’s WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING? (Carcanet Press), sent a chill up my spine. It took some time for me to figure out why. The perfect pentameter of the first line and the twice-tolled bell of “late” made me expect a rhyme—but it stays hidden, until too late: “fate.”