Clinton Poetry Society

06/03/2025

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

BY JAMES WRIGHT

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly, Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines, The droppings of last year's horses Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes
on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

02/28/2025

Stop & Look, Alicante

Why is there (under this sea) always
an other sea? Scrolling through miles
of leopard-print bikinis, I wonder, could I go
“all out”? Just imagine where my cleavage should peak,
would peek from under—do I go for side or classic?
Which stretch marks will I sun, running
like shoals of mica palmed by waves?
Will I add a shell
accent?

Some saddie on the web says,
a hungry moon snail made the mark,
says, moon snails release an acid
to soften the shell, then drill a borehole
(a toothed tongue) and feed off the meat
of the “victim.” What if I lost

these breasts altogether? I’m hunting.
Another saddie says, those holes were made
by a boring sponge, drilling holes
into shells for their calcium.

The leopard walks on water. Their claws
just prick the surface without going under.
You’re a heavy cat, and I wish I had you-
r muscle. Just imagine. I could love it.

Layla Benitez-James

02/26/2025

12/09/2024

Hello, Holly Gehlbach here. Happy Monday! Have you guys been writing lately? I always love writing Vers Libre poetry, but lately I’ve been doing more poetic journal entries and kind of mixing the two. I felt like sharing a journal extract today. Feel free to share any of your writings in the comments! 📝

12/09/2024

While Everything Else Was Falling Apart

BY ADA LIMÓN

In the Union Square subway station nearly fifteen
years ago now, the L train came clanking by
where someone had Sharpied a black heart
on the yellow pillar you leaned on during a bleak day
(brittle and no notes from anyone you crushed upon).
Above ground, the spring sun was the saddest one
(doing work, but also none). What were you wearing?
Something hopeful to show the world you hoped?
A tall man was learning from a vendor how to pronounce
churro. High in the sticky clouds of time, he kept
repeating churro while eating a churro. How to say
this made you want to live? No hand to hold
still here it was: someone giving someone comfort
and someone memorizing hard how to ask for it again.

12/01/2024

"I do not need to get used to your silence. I already know it. I quite possibly love all of it."

–Ernest Hemingway

12/01/2024

“Longing is not a mind game and that is why I’ve always trusted it. Longing is raw, longing is real; it makes one listen and be attentive to what’s inside. There is mad honesty in longing. So mad that it feels suitable. It is very suitable for me, I’m telling you — I don’t even want to write it or write about it, I want to be it.”

–Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters (1977)

Photo by Louise Dahl-Wolfe

11/20/2024

The Tree of Life 2011
Director: Terrence Malick

Cinematography: Emmanuel Lubezki