Featured poets from our staff and the community.

Poem courtesy of gwern.net

With the autumn sun

my birthday comes, and it goes;

and the leftover

presents’ discarded wrappings

remind me of my own fate.

Death poems are all just

falling blossoms and nonsense:

dying is dying

Papermachine wrote:

What zeal!

the wild nights spent burning

candles,

running up mountains,

churning through paper

Reply:

With such zeal and joy

did I burn those wild nights

in the candle light,

bounding up paper piles

and scaling mountains of thought

Coda:

Now decade the third,

and what do I have to show?

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