Poetry & Fiction

[Epilogue from Timothy Mayer’s production of Aristophanes’ “Peace” ] Apologies to Aristophanes We feel we must extend the end he’d planned And graft some new material on his grand Finale, as a warning. We too hate war And think the country’s governed by a house of whores. Write your petition. Fine, sign it. But while … Read more

When we were boys We called each other “Man” With a long n Pronounced as if a promise We wore felt hats That took a month to buy In small installments Shiny Florsheim or Stacy Adams shoes Carried our dancing gait And flashed our challenge Breathing our aspirations into words We harmonized our yearnings to … Read more

Roxane Beth Johnson’s first book of poetry, Jubilee, won the Philip Levine Award for Poetry and was published by Anhinga Press, 2006. Here’s one of our favorite poems from that collection: Weeknight Services The organ’s flare-hued opera hummed loud in the small church above the bar with its bumpy music. Our voiccs wound up being … Read more

Carmelita Estrellita (AKA Natalie Estrellita) is a longtime contributor to First of the Month. Fired up by late stylings of Leonard Cohen (among other personal heroes) ourFirst lyricist has been especially inspired lately. Check these new testaments to Estrellita’s wit and the beat of her “knee-jerk heart.” Touch Me touch you in the evening touch … Read more

First is honored to publish poems by Diane di Prima (who has just been named Poet Laureate of San Francisco). A GOOD DAY TO it is with my whole heart open no pain in it I celebrate lost brothers & sisters — what joy! we lived riding war ponies straight into the sun   REALITY … Read more

the mystical o’brien I’m not even sure how to spell his name surrounds me like a siren one more phantom not quite feeling his pain (but wishing to just the same) the new york public library’s losing its mind the books all speechless the windows blind a million ideas now no one can find walked … Read more

That man with the cat face circling the ring long spidery arms at his sides, is Gavilan, oiled and ready, the one-time cane cutter now fine-tuned to destroy. He’s waiting. If someone would step up, he’d hold down the rope’s middle strand with unblinking, bloodshot, almond eyes. The dusty light of August 1948 falls across … Read more