National Poetry Month : Cole Swensen,

 

 

Trees in Mist

 

To ghost an oak once lost—an oak beyond all thought—and the haunt, a fact. We crushed aloft what a ghost creates of fog. I walked out into the garden in the fog—and the trees walked off ahead. A tree never dies, just shifts to darker light. We crushed the light—we live behind—the ghosts of trees—whose breathing leaves filaments that also see—the ghosts inside us—that lie—though not for long.

 

 

 

 

Cole Swensen is the author of twenty books of poetry, most recently Veer (Alice James Books, 2026). A former Guggenheim Fellow and a recipient of the Iowa Poetry Prize and the San Francisco State Poetry Center Book Award, she has been a finalist for the Griffin Prize, the National Book Award, and the LA Times Book Award and was awarded the 2025 Paul Engle Award by the Iowa City UNESCO City of Literature.

National Poetry Month : Chris Johnson,

 

drought left the leaner birds

after Ellen Chang-Richardson’s “rain brings the angler fish” from Blood Belies (Wolsak & Wynn, 2024)

 

westward breezes rustle hairs
boldened with clean sweetness 

sunshine calm-drenches
an elder’s arriving 

you nibble on your last vitamin
drool like cool spitting steel 

hum to yourself, that was that was that
was that was the inside scrambling out

 

 

 

 

 

Chris Johnson (he/him) currently lives on unceded, unsurrendered territory of the Anishinaabe Algonquin Nation. He works as the managing editor of Arc Poetry Magazine and editorial assistant at Nightwood Editions. His previous chapbooks include 320 lines of poetry (counting blank lines) (Anstruther Press, 2023) and some of the raccoon poems (above/ground press, 2022).

National Poetry Month : Catriona Strang,

 

 

A Wee Dram


At the risk of my new teeth
and reconfigured woolen borders
plated in the rhythm and structures
of an imagined rural life, let’s offer
cover for protesting crowds now that
there’s no place left
to play. Very tumultuous and
disorderly (on the pitch as on
the shop floor), woven with crossing
stripes in the designs of empire whose
perverse and familiar stoicism – “There’s
no mud in October!” – flourishes in
the deep floral borders of an offending
singalong, pleasingly pissing off
the old boy hegemony. Think
again. In streets, at festivals, and
during holiday times, twill edgings
and checks of silk will firm up
this ground so churned by frank
admiration of goat’s fleece, dodges
and trickery: “Here I go
bringing class into it again,” but it’s
sure as a peaty dram

Catriona Strang is the author of Unfuckable Lardass and five other books of poetry. She is recovering from decades of caring labour.

National Poetry Month : Noah Sparrow,

 

Excessive Positioning (excerpts)

 

I am hungry most of
the time and I’m
not always wanting
sex. This is a fact.
One of my many
favourite things
is a strong clean
floor and the taste
of the chicken
we had after
he watched us
and we were all
kind about things
which invokes
a new kind of
feeling but
I want
to move away
from that
and instead
focus on
you, now
because
I am always
wanting you 

When I was
growing up
I thought
that every adult
in the world
was joking about
liking asses
and the way one
can round up.
Then I learned
the real truth later
on and then again
and then again
and then again
with you so white
and so round
it also served
as a language
lesson, too
because finally
I understood
why it was
called mooning
this hole time

 

 

 

Noah Sparrow is a Montreal-Tiohtià:ke based writer originally from Toronto-Tkaronto. His chapbook SPECTACLE/SPECTATOR is out with above/ground press, and a second, Here I am Dying at an Average Pace, is forthcoming with Cactus Press in 2026. He won the Gabriel Safdie Poetry Award and was a finalist for the 2024 Montreal International Poetry Prize. Check out his work in The Fiddlehead or more at noahsparrow.com