May 05, 2016

A poem from the Spring 2016 issue.

Two wasps copulate over your back porch—
their wings grate the air above the ochre splotch

where a hawk took down a pigeon last winter
not long after your move into the yellow house

April 14, 2016

A poem from our Spring 2016 issue. 

Home, I follow the roads passing the fruit orchards and the roaring white sheds of honey. The / clouds—always inclined to thunder. The rain travels west from the mountains.

April 07, 2016
A poem from the Spring 2016 issue, inspired by Richard Leo Johnson’s photographs.

The carpets, the paneling, the overstuffed recliner. Chainsaw carving
on the TV, kerosene lantern for thunderstorms, girl

lying on the carpet in her shorts, Converses, ankle socks. TV remote
within reach. Stained glass figures in the panes.
April 05, 2016

A poem from the Spring 2016 issue.

“Here he is, the Amazing Blind Tom . . . / he’s pitched in darkness, exalted through sound / he’s mastered sharp and flat of piano:”

April 05, 2016

Once opened, the book immediately communicates to its reader what she needs to know: Olio is unlike any other book of poetry you have held.

February 26, 2016

Since joining the Oxford American in 2014, I’ve taken the occasion of our annual music issue to offer our readers a variety of special poetry features. I feel that our Georgia issue, aligned with the spirit of that state, acts as a little archive of a certain time and place, a bound capsule of song and sensibility.

February 24, 2016

A poem from our Georgia Music Issue.

Come June this brook runs soft, 
takes its lumps, before the family 
gets AC, your cheap bike busted, 
walking tar-heeled, skin-to-skin

February 24, 2016

A poem from the Georgia Music issue. 

That ribbed black box that could be coaxed to croon
by surer hands than ours—where did it come from?
From whose family history? Was it in tune?

February 24, 2016

A poem from our Georgia Music Issue.

In his call to the marketplace

the griot urges the skin     clasps

the first beat

February 24, 2016

A poem from the Georgia Music issue. 

The summer that I turned nineteen
And felt grown-up in love,
I took a job as an archivist
Sifting through a trove