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About this poet

Noah Warren is the author of The Destroyer in the Glass (Yale University Press, 2016), winner of the Yale Series of Younger Poets. He was the recipient of a Wallace Stegner Fellowship and is currently pursuing a PhD in English at the University of California, Berkeley.

Wind

           threw the pot of aloe from the balcony.
Bone yellow with a crackle glaze:
I was sitting close, I saw it teeter
on the railing,
the iron swaying— 
 
There are so many plants.
 
On slender, ringed necks
the old palms whipped up and down,
and shone, and broke
on the wind.
The squat ones nodded.
 
I was wearing my hat, above me
the sky was a lake of blue fire.
Volts of cream
came swirling off
the mountains, rushed across it,
and, twisting, tore apart.
 
I was walking up into the foothills,
I walked and walked. The day changed
in its sad, orange way.
I was unfree as the flowering pear trees,
unfree as the brown-cap birds tearing
the petals from their branches,
gobbling mouthfuls
of softness—
 
Warm rocks at my back,
valley in front of me. Oh valley
 
dark in the shadow, and dark in the light.
 
The sky moved crying
through your walls.

Copyright © 2018 Noah Warren. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2018.

Copyright © 2018 Noah Warren. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2018.

Noah Warren

Noah Warren

Noah Warren is the author of The Destroyer in the Glass (Yale University Press, 2016), winner of the Yale Series of Younger Poets. 

by this poet

poem

At the Standard they pay a man to lathe olive wood
into the softball-sized spheres they load the braziers with

in the heat of early afternoon. They douse them with gas, touch
a match: and the guests with their crow faces

and sky-colored suits emerge
to sip from tiny eggshell glasses.

poem

More than a hundred dollars of them.

It was pure folly. I had to find more glass things to stuff them          
       in.

Now a white and purple cloud is breathing in each corner

of the room I love. Now a mass of flowers spills down my                  
      dining table—

each

2
poem

With the mower passing over
the lawn this August morning

shirtless, lightheaded

it is such easy going, you just
push it along and the fresh swathe
follows after, good machine,

and what Mother called the smell of order
wafts up from the headless
plants