poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

Recorded for Poem-a-Day, July 6, 2017.
About this Poem 

“My daughter and my fiancée were making cookies in the kitchen. I stepped in the other room and wrote this poem. Over the course of the last year or so I’ve written over a hundred poems like this, each composed entirely on my iPhone. I wanted to see if an art dedicated to presence and immediacy might offer itself as a balm against the technology that serves otherwise to eradicate the art from both of these conditions.”
—Noah Eli Gordon

Out of Touch Screen

Sometimes starting with a title
Infuses the work
With an insurmountable dread
How is one to fulfill such a promise
To make good on the pact
That art in the end allows
For a kind of connectivity
Life otherwise lacks
Or lacks in those more
Contemplative ways
Since mixing the ingredients
To say a batch of cookies
Is in its own right a sort
Of connectivity if done together
If my hand touching flour touches
Your hand touching the same flour

Copyright © 2017 by Noah Eli Gordon. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 6, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

Copyright © 2017 by Noah Eli Gordon. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 6, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

Noah Eli Gordon

Noah Eli Gordon

Noah Eli Gordon is the author of Is That the Sound of a Piano Coming from Several Houses Down (Solid Objects, 2018).

by this poet

poem

The bottom teeth of summer

in winter, braided into

whomever stood on the green green bridge watching her shadow lengthen.

Sun-pocket. Sunflower. Seedling, you

brittle blossoming something the room clears of dailyness.

Daily, the bottom teeth of summer

poem

for Graham Foust

What is technology if not

a kind of built-in nostalgia

for the frantic past’s long slide

into a slower present

Put another way: a decade

bends 8-bit bells & whistles

into an oxymoron it nearly

hurts

poem
To say sleep works by accumulation is to disregard the
weather in my head.

It makes a genius of the pillow, an apt anthropomorphic
redundancy.

When the story stumbles into its fearless costume &
everyone at the edge of the woods is worried their waiting-
room bravado won't open to anything but the same