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Articles by David St. John
The Doors - Podcast Playground
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David St. John: "Giulietta in Trastevere"
David St. John It wasn’t what I’d expected when I saw the address Marco had written on the flyleaf in my copy of Montale’s The Storm (it really was) just before we left his brother’s bar next door to a vacant dry-cleaning place on Broome Street as he said You’ve got to check in on her for me you’ve got to see how she’s doing—you’ve got to see if she’s alive & I swore it would be the first thing I’d do when I got back to Rome that I wouldn’t let a day pass before I’d go & see Giulietta & that...
Genius Loci
Skip to main content Find and share the perfect poems. i.m. D S C H I Music’s poltergeist among the grand spirits, can you now tell what such possession is or was saying: I know the woman who stands here in Pushkin’s clock-haunted house, shadowy figure nimbus’d by light’s mode amid the wan company thinning at dawn. The air sways, a lamp holds vigil with its smoky flame. The fiddle is in velvet, the cello has ceased to urge her proud commodious song.
“Prayer for My Daughter,” by David St. John
What prayer becomes me now As these times darken daily Until sons & daughters grow as Fragile as the wind along these Ever-altering surfaces of a world Ripping apart—& whose Fault really this sorrowing Of fathers drawing only maps Of their own fears as whole Cities begin darkening in ash Shadows as uncertain as Blake’s Own wild consumptive city by The Thames & as Vivienne & I walked those mornings By the Pacific along The Venice boardwalk talking Looking past the ocean beyond Waves barely...
Video Valentine to Our Beloved Beech Trees
By David St. John The forest is its own thanksgiving Walking a mile or so from the road Past the lake & ancient post office I skim the long bodies of the beech trees The elegant ascension of their slender trunks A kind of gorgeous illusory play Of white bars against the dark ochre matting Of the earth below Peace is where you find it As here the last secret of the dawn air mixes With a nostalgia so perfumed by misery Only the rhythm of the walk itself Carries me beyond the past To say I miss...
Paris Review - The Park
It was I think in a small town in Ohio I taped to the wall above my office desk the postcard Of Klimt's painting called The Park An example of cliche so profuse it touched my heart Consoling me each time I turned my glance to its Storm of tiny moth-sized leaves shimmering over all but the bottom Ribbon of the canvas where the rows of the trunks individuate The mass of the pulsing foliage above A figure in a kimono or a robe so lush it too seems foliate Stands apart from two other figures...
Beeches
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Marvin Bell: A Discussion of his Career with Christopher Merrill and David St. John
A few months after the death of Marvin Bell, Air/Light editor David L. Ulin sat down with Bell’s friend and collaborator Christopher Merrill and his friend and former student David St. John to discuss the poet’s work and legacy. We are please to bring that conversation to you as part of AirLight‘s tribute to Bell.
In the High Country
Some days I am happy to be no one The shifting grasses In the May winds are miraculous enough As they ripple through the meadow of lupine The field as iridescent as a Renaissance heaven & do you see that boy with his arms raised Like one of Raphael’s angels held within This hush & this pause & the sky’s lapis expanse? That boy is my son & I am his only father Even when I am no one
Larry Levis
Poet Larry Levis, whose collection The Afterlife won the Lamont Poetry Prize, often employed an imagist or surrealist approach in his work. As Diane Wakoski wrote in Contemporary Poets, Levis's "work is best when the poems are short and are shaped by his imagist instincts or his gestures towards surrealism. He is a master of the brief moment of recognition where the personal is embedded in the generic . . .
The New York Times
Tonight the hungry boys are out looking for all the hungry girls Delilah says & that’s just the way it is Just the way it’s always been all those hungry girls all those hungry boys their naked ribs bright as vibraphones Shined by the tracks of somebody’s sweat & as I look back at those nights claws bared & bloody I wish I could remember just one thing that tasted even a little like tenderness & of all the things I wanted I never once meant to fool you into thinking I was simply your ordinary...
Spring 2016
The Spring 2016 issue of Ploughshares. Ploughshares is an award-winning journal of new writing. Two out of each year's three issues are guest-edited by prominent writers who explore different personal visions, aesthetics, and literary circles, with the Winter issue staff-edited. Acclaimed poets Tom Sleigh and Alan Shapiro guest-edit this poetry and prose issue of Ploughshares.
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