White-Eyes, by Mary Oliver (RIP)

In winter
    all the singing is in
         the tops of the trees
             where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
    shoves and pushes
         among the branches.
             Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
    but he’s restless—
         he has an idea,
             and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
    as long as he stays awake.
         But his big, round music, after all,
             is too breathy to last.
So, it’s over.
    In the pine-crown
         he makes his nest,
             he’s done all he can.
I don’t know the name of this bird,
    I only imagine his glittering beak
         tucked in a white wing
             while the clouds—
which he has summoned
    from the north—
         which he has taught
             to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
    into the world below
         like stars, or the feathers
               of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
    that is asleep now, and silent—
         that has turned itself
             into snow.



John D. Robinson – Hang in There

Uncollected Press, the publisher of The Raw Art Review, has selected John D. Robinson’s book Hang in There for the first book publication project in 2019.  UCP is very excited to have the opportunity to present John’s beautiful, powerful, deeply illuminating and often devastating poems in full book form.  Please see RAR’s featured poet page for John (link below) to get a preview of John’s poetry, to see John’s BIO and to find links to buy his previously published books.


Featured Poem: In 2019, by Matt Borczon

In 2019

I am
an old
man yelling
at clouds
a dog
shivering in
a doorway
I am
a crescent
moon and
all the

I am
a promise
a dream
you wake
from crying
I am
everything and
nothing all
at once

I am
on the
head of
a cosmic
pin on
an Ohio
blue tip
match I
am what
50 wolves
howling sounds

and I
am still
the guy
in the
bar talking
to himself
and talking
to no
one at

The Francis Ponge Prize for Poetry Winning Poem

The Potato
by Dara Elerath

The potato is afraid of light and movement. It would like to stay hidden forever, fattening slowly in its soft cocoon of soil. Its life is a life of sleep—do not begrudge it this simple existence. It is kin to stone in shape and nature, but softness betrays it. If a worm, seeking moisture, tunnels through, the potato, uneasy, says nothing. Its eyes are scars, they do not shift or lift their lids to note the damage; they do not try to understand. This misshapen lantern dangling from roots has no wish to illuminate anything at all. It is no use unearthing the potato before its time. The vegetable goes slowly. It does not tremble at the pressure of feet aboveground. It does not pray picturing the spade or the farmer’s rough, indifferent gloves. Rain falls, sun shines—the potato does not miss these things. Sweetness pours in through its stem, smoothing, straightening the brown paper of its skin.