The National Catholic Review


  • August 17-24, 2015
    I/Blaise Pascal
    “The silence of these infinite spaces frightens me:
    The dark dissolves to numbered points and emptiness.
    I’ve tried to write of it, but the imploding blank
    Swallows what...
  • August 3-10, 2015
    In this fine light the figurations
    rise and die
    like Attention and the sense
    and sensuous condition of paint
    and music God knows Degas
    knew the waltz of signs,
  • July 20-27, 2015
    “The bird lies still while the light goes on flying.”
    From “Unknown Age,” by W. S. Merwin
    Those with strapped-on wings
    for ages dreamt of flying like the birds
  • June 22-29, 2015
    For Sister Rosemary Johnson, R.S.M.
    And a river went out of the place of pleasure to water paradise.—Gn 2:10
    Adam…could not have inferred from the fluidity and transparency of water that it would suffocate him….—Hume
  • June 8-15, 2015
    The editors of America are pleased to present the winner of the 2015 Foley Poetry Award, given in honor of William T. Foley, M.D.
    Water leaped here not long since.
    Then earth belched up a ridge,
    and here we cluster, crabs all, cleaving
  • June 8-15, 2015

    The original title of this year’s Foley poetry contest winner was, “After the Molt, the King of Crabs, Feeling Tender, Addresses the Folk.”  On first reading, the poem seemed messy, too strange, haphazard. The long title contributed to that impression.

  • May 18, 2015
    I’ll return for one night, carrying you
    papaya. Thickly cut. Resembling
    driftwood scattered below the parking lot
    I can see from Sacramento’s river bridges.
    I’m taking I-5 south to 99....
  • May 11, 2015
    “I am rebegot/ Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.” — John Donne, “A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy’s Day”
    Again and again, from nothingness I’m born.
    Each death I witness makes me more my own.
    I imagine each excess line of mine erased,
  • May 4, 2015
    The lady of the cleaners
    doesn’t care.
    She really doesn’t care.
    She writes your fate
    in a steamed inferno
    and presses with despair.
    Three pins in mouth—
  • April 27, 2015
    Their shadows flickered and stretched to the west.
    The future fixed its lidless eye
    On concrete switchgrass, furrows of asphalt.
    Telescopes, searchlights aimed on high
    Shot the flare of the mind at darkness.
    We stood on the moon but...