FIELD #100

(Spring 2019)
FIELD 100  
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Heather Christle

Science Fair
Suggested Donation

Erin Malone
The Returned
Training Exercise
Megan Snyder-Camp
White Animals
Susan Rich
Angie Estes
Alicia Rebecca Myers
Hot Horse
G. C. Waldrep
Tisbury Poem
Ute von Funcke
translated by Stuart Friebert

Algorithm of Eternal Life
His Many-Leveled House

Judith Small
Mark Neely

Red Lever

Susan Grimm
The Minotaur Room
Laura Judge
In That Photo, the Himalayas
The Fascist Police Knock at My Door
Benjamin Naka-Hasebe Kingsley
Nantucket Sleighride
Dennis Schmitz
Jean Valentine
Carol Moldaw
Kate Patridge
Fanfare for the Dinosaurs, or, The Trumpeter
Per Aage Brandt
translated by Thom Satterlee
from Blue Skies
Frannie Lindsay
Richard K. Kent
Trying My Hand at Translating Li Bai
Elton Glaser
Sandra McPherson
Swimming During Polio
Get Back into the Alphabet Box
Margaret Ray
Garden State

Fifty Poems from Fifty Years

Kaveh Akbar
What Seems Like Joy
Margaret Atwood
The Woman Who Could Not Live with Her Faulty Heart
Angela Ball
Ordinance Survey
Bruce Beasley
Red Reed
Linda Bierds
Quickly and Fully
Chana Bloch
Three Studies for a Head of John the Baptist
Robert Bly   August Rain
Marianne Boruch   Lament
Traci Brimhall   Dear Thanatos,
Ralph Burns   Junior High Football, Wingback
Billy Collins   Idiomatic
Jane Cooper   Olympic Rain Forest
Rita Dove   Melencholia I
Russell Edson   The Wounded Breakfast
Kathy Fagan   Visitation
John Gallaher   I Will Sing the Monster to Sleep & He Will Need Me
Beckian Fritz Goldberg   I Have Lived Here All My Life
Michael S. Harper   Homage to the New World
Janice N. Harrington   A Colored Woman Cannot Sing
David Hernandez   Moose in Snow
Bob Hicok   Team Effort
Brenda Hillman   Ellipsis
Christopher Howell   Ghosts
Laura Jensen   The Moon Rises
Laura Kasischke   Landscape with One of the Earthworm's Ten Hearts
Shirley Kaufman   A Japanese Fan
Philip Levine   A Wall in Naples and Nothing More
Jon Loomis   Tourists
Thomas Lux   There Were Some Summers
Amit Majmudar   Control+Alt+Delete Ghazal
W. S. Merwin   One Time
Sharon Olds   The Falls
Carl Phillips   Canoe
Catherine Pierce   Tunnel Vision
Carol Potter   The Good Pig
Kevin Prufer   Four Little Conversations
Adrienne Rich   When We Dead Awaken
Heather Sellers   Witness
Betsy Sholl   Behind the Saint-Lazare Station
Charles Simic   Eyes Fastened with Pins
David St. John   Wedding Preparations in the Country
William Stafford   Notice What This Poem Is Not Doing
Gerald Stern   Romania, Romania
Mark Strand   The Prediction
Arthur Sze   Winter Stars
Lee Upton   The Imagination of Flowers
Nancy Willard   Saint Pumpkin
C. D. Wright   Mons Venus
Charles Wright   Looking Outside the Cabin Window, I Remember a Line by Li Po
Franz Wright   Alcohol




They’ve come through the rain
with red leaves stuck to their shoes,
hungry, popping cabinets open
and shaking the cereal boxes. 
They eat the last of everything.

They don’t wonder
if the fish at the bottom of its blue
graveled bowl is asleep

or dead,
nothing is dead.

Like the insides of teacups
they gleam. Never drowned
or hunted, they have no wounds

on their bodies. They are
where they left off—

So how can we explain our constant longing
to touch, to follow
and kneel at the doors
closed to us? Wanting to know
what can’t be told:

Faces pressed to keyholes,
each room a diorama,

the dressers, combs and the
little shells.

—Erin Malone

Copyright © 2019 by Oberlin College. May not be reproduced without permission.


When the normal man in midlife
sighs, assents to sell his fleamarket doll
whose eyes he loved to make blink,

when our Taiwanese new citizen
laughs telling me he delivers mail
to a clothesline of American bras,

when the blind art professor
adopts a cat that must be silky
and specifically ebony,

when the junior high bully shows
his teacher why he acts out mean:
under his lifted shirt, three nipples…

when I’m hit in the spine by a lime
on my way to baste the steelhead,
and in the breast by a bag of the harder
candy bars, nougat and nuts,
we bought to sweeten the frightening kids,
when my longest-living friend’s
entire news she couldn’t speak
consisted of “this,” when I surmised that meant
the soul escaping from her hopeless daughter

during the fruitless pumping
on the swimmer’s back, the way you empty,
one push at a time, an air mattress to pack away,
the lifeguard plum-slick and smelling burnt,
then I dove through chlorine, a thin blade
filleting a trout, got out, slathered
coconut on small thighs, looked up
at the high springboard’s terminus,
from which, once winter’s harbor
is drained, you might see all that is left
of one soggy squirrel…

When Dr. Sanfilippo immunized my right rear rose,
I bent the needle. That’s when Aunt Ruth
with her oil paints, and the neighbor boy,
the chemist’s son, sat frozen with polio
on the hot cement by the pool.

—Sandra McPherson

Copyright © 2019 by Oberlin College. May not be reproduced without permission.



The great trouble in human life is that looking and eating are two different operations.
—Simone Weil

She wants to eat god, so she goes
to the museum. She wants to gum
the wrist of the baby in the paintings,
especially when he is depicted as simply
a mini adult. She goes by the book,
the one in her backpack, and though she says
Greek to herself quietly, over and over,
Greek, Greek, here in this northern city
on a river nowhere near the Mediterranean,
she wants to sink her teeth into the folds
of white marble robe wrapped around
the headless female figure. She wants for
resistance, wants to stuff the hard consonants
of this foreign language into her mouth.
She goes to the cheese shop and looks,
goes to the butcher shop and looks at
the meats as they glisten and hang, wants
for transitive verb and object without
interposing preposition, so she goes
to the cathedral to eat the organ, goes
to the river to consume the architectural leftovers
of ancient commerce, wants to eat the word
architecture, she wants to taste the briny smell
of the hulls and the damp bodies of the people
in the bus wants to dry her tongue
on the felt of the seats wants to click her teeth
against the shiny red pole she hangs
onto, standing, while the bus jerks
all the bodies around corners. She
wants to bite down on the thick coins
in her pocket, carry them pinned
between molars, taste all the hands,
the hotel room key-card would fit
in her closed mouth, propping out her cheeks
like the x-ray bite-plate panel at the dentist.
When she meets her dark-haired host she
takes his hand, raises it to her lips.

—Margaret Ray

Copyright © 2019 by Oberlin College. May not be reproduced without permission.

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