They may fall from the trees, but they are not dead
             National Weather Service Miami

don't mistake for suffering what isn't suffering | the hint of
a chill tossing some palms

                                                               ___

me in a frumpy green sweater | the iguanas swooning
in verdant afghans

                                                               ___


limp and leather | a flurry of iguanas startled the road

                                                               ___


atop an emerald Lexus plopped the iguana ! the snowbirds
mistook it for a chameleon driving through their lush resort

                                                               ___


like a sculpture of itself | the iguana depicted stillness
without any fear of stillness

                                                               ___


I'm afraid of many things | but none is the iguana
lying naked on a swale in its dead dream of winter
from the book ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE /  Copper Canyon Press
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The phenomenon of drowsy iguanas falling from trees on chilly Florida nights is well-known to those of us who live in Miami. I've never actually seen this happen myself, but the idea of a flurry of iguanas snowing down from the palm trees struck me as a wonderfully silly one, and that image inspired this little homage to Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird."

Jaswinder Bolina on "Iguana Variations in Winter"
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Najwan Darwish Discusses Strikes On Gaza, Art, And The Role Of Poetry During Time Of War

"Since early November, I’ve been in this process of trying to remember so I can rewrite at least some lines, and also trying to forget about it so I can live my life again. It’s a metaphor for our lives as well, because even if [Palestinians] want to continue as a nation, as a people, we have to remember, but we also have to forget. And I don’t know what we should remember and what we should forget."

via THE GUARDIAN
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What Sparks Poetry:
Erin Marie Lynch on Reading Prose


"My family's archive was haunting me. Or the archive beneath the archive, the archive against the archive. The archive that could be for us. I was trying to trace the movements of my ancestors backwards, from Oregon to Standing Rock to the Dakota homelands in Minnesota. I needed to find out whether my great-great-grandmother, Elizabeth, had been involved in the forced march following the U.S.-Dakota War of 1862 and the following atrocities. And I needed poetry to understand the varied and various rippings and sutures of our people and our land."
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