“Poetry is a matter of life, not just a matter of language,” wrote Lucille Clifton, and though the twenty poems featured below are certainly rich in language, they are even richer in their portrayals of what it is to be human, with all its worries and wins, loves and losses, struggles and salvations. From a young Native woman grappling with her heritage, to a gay man standing up to his mother’s bigotry, to a family coping with a son’s meth-fueled arrests, to a man’s affirmation of his blackness, to an impassioned testament to the love between spouses, and much more, these poets remind us of our shared experiences and awaken our empathy. What more could we ask of great poems?
Kenzie Allen
How to Be a Real Indian
You’re one Indian and a fraud, flying toward Delaware.
Diannely Antigua
We Never Stop Talking about Our Mothers
We are all carrying our mothers, and we are all better daughters.
Victoria Chang
Obit
Did the blood rush to my face or to my fingertips?
Leila Chatti
Muslim Girlhood
The news assumed every Muslim girl-heart was a bomb.
Chen Chen
i’m sorry, i’m sorry
i’ll be kissing my boyfriend’s entire face very well. i’m happy, very.
Madeleine Cravens
The Feast of Saint Francis
2024 Narrative Prize Winner
Cardinal in my rib cage. Red plumage everywhere.Natalie Diaz
Downhill Triolets
2012 Narrative Prize Winner
Ring at 2 a.m. means meth’s got my brother in the slammer again.Nikki Giovanni
Legacies
she wiped her hands saying “lord these children”
Edward Hirsch
To My Seventeen-Year-Old Self
Your friends are sniffing glue in the back of an Impala.
Langston Hughes
The Weary Blues
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
Richard Jones
The Novel
Paris to Rome, the French hated me for crying.
Raven Leilani
The Food Chain
Predators don’t go around showing their cutlery.
W. S. Merwin
Gift
I must be led by what was given to me as streams are led by it.
Philip Metres
I Will Meet You at the End
We will rupture the calendar and demolish the clocks.
Naomi Shihab Nye
My Mom Serves Tea to Her Robbers
She remained lucid, except for this frolic, this boisterous tête-à-tête.
Sharon Olds
Nevada City, California, Aubade
I can hardly believe that dancer’s willow ripple was my torso.
Paisley Rekdal
Baucis and Philemon
2018 Narrative Prize Winner
A mild, almost dreamy pleasure begins to suffuse his face.Ocean Vuong
No One Knows the Way to Heaven
2015 Narrative Prize Winner
Why are my hands always empty when touching those I love?Dean Young
Changing Genres
All that matters is a kiss at the end of a dark hall.
Yusef Komunyakaa
English
I heard a girl talking, but they weren’t words.