Live With Art. It's Good For You. You can email me

Interconnected 1 by Carrie Marill

Paired: 
Carrie Marill + William Carlos Williams    

It Is a Small Plant

It is a small plant    
delicately branched and    
tapering conically    
to a point, each branch    
and the peak a wire for            
green pods, blind lanterns    
starting upward from    
the stalk each way to    
a pair of prickly edged blue    
flowerets: it is her regard,            
a little plant without leaves,    
a finished thing guarding    
its secret. Blue eyes—    
but there are twenty looks    
in one, alike as forty flowers            
on twenty stems—Blue eyes    
a little closed upon a wish    
achieved and half lost again,    
stemming back, garlanded    
with green sacks of            
satisfaction gone to seed,    
back to a straight stem—if    
one looks into you, trumpets—!    
No. It is the pale hollow of    
desire itself counting            
over and over the moneys of    
a stale achievement. Three    
small lavender imploring tips
below and above them two
slender colored arrows
of disdain with anthers
between them and
at the edge of the goblet
a white lip, to drink from—!
And summer lifts her look
forty times over, forty times
over—namelessly.

William Carlos Williams



In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com.

Grounded Iceberg, Arthur Harbor, Anvers Island, Antarctica by Stuart Klipper

Paired: 
Stuart Klipper + Jean Valentine

Icebergs, Ilulissat


In blue-green air & water God
you have come back for us,
to our fiberglass boat.

You have come back for us, & I’m afraid.
(But you never left.)

Great sadness at harms.
But nothing that comes now, after,
can be like before.

Even when the icebergs are gone, and the millions of suns

have burnt themselves out of your arms,

your arms of burnt air,
you are with us
whoever we are then.

Jean Valentine



In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com.

588-Verbenas on the Desert by Phil Jung

Paired: Phil Jung + Jeffrey Teuton

Untitled

ghost towns
women in American jackets
purple sky in Texas
radio turned to all night Christmas songs.

Jeffrey Teuton



In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com.

Rodeo Stars, Strong City, Kansas by Mike Sinclair 

Paired
Mike Sinclair + Walt Whitman

I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck-hand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The woodcutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Walt Whitman



In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com.

False Memory by Ricky Allman

Paired: 
Ricky Allman + Jim Moore

Twenty Questions

Did I forget to look at the sky this morning
when I first woke up? Did I miss the willow tree?
The white gravel road that goes up from the cemetery,
but to where? And the abandoned house on the hill, did it get
even a moment? Did I notice the small clouds so slowly
moving away? And did I think of the right hand
of God? What if it is a slow cloud descending
on earth as rain? As snow? As shade? Don’t you think
I should move on to the mop? How it just sits there, too often
unused? And the stolen rose on its stem?
Why would I write a poem without one?
Wouldn’t it be wrong not to mention joy? Sadness,
its sleepy-eyed twin? If I’d caught the boat
to Mykonos that time when I was nineteen
would the moon have risen out of the sea
and shone on my life so clearly
I would have loved it
just as it was? Is the boat
still in the harbor, pointing
in the direction of the open sea? Am I
still nineteen? Going in or going out,
can I let the tide make of me
what it must? Did I already ask that?

Jim Moore



In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com.

Animal Locomotion: Plate 707 (Dog) by Eadweard Muybridge (Happy Birthday, Eadweard Muybridge!)

Paired: Eadweard MuybridgeBenjamin Harnett

Animal Locomotion

The leash tugs in my hand. I turn
to see my dog, turned too, shivering,
hackles up the length of his spine.

We’d walked a usual path tonight,
late so that the street was dark, except
where lamps slapped yellow light

to shadows. I’ve taken to holding
my cellphone up, reading as we walk.
He doesn’t mind, and keeps ahead,

or snuffles aside at some concrete patch
the way he does because his face
is somewhat flat. Before, in a green place,

we lived apart from these things I think
seem the same to me as to him. A few
times, then, at field’s end a burn barrel

warped with age and rust, looming,
startled him to growl as if at a bear.
Once, at night, he hurled himself

against the glass, and ran when I let him
out past the cone of porch-light
barking wildly, while in the valley

coyotes warbled, yipped, and howled.
But on this neighborhood street
I find it odd to hear him growl.

It’s just some woman, coming home
to her apartment in a black coat,
with her bags, facing away, oddly still.

After a minute she swings her eyes to us,
and my entire body turns to ice.
As like to us our dogs are, in them

beats an alien heart whose locomotion
we can only infer: to seek comfort,
and in the darks of their lives to fear

for all there is to lose.

Benjamin Harnett


In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com. Thanks Benjamin for sending this one in!

After the Rain by Chikara Umihara

Paired: Chikara Umihara + Mary Oliver

Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me


Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!
That’s what it said
as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain –
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.

Mary Oliver



In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com.

Feral House #13 by James Griffioen

Paired
James Griffioen + Marie Howe

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
 
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
 
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
 
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
 
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
 
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.
 
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep
 
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

Marie Howe



In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com.

iSketch104 by Jorge Colombo

Paired: Jorge ColomboLizzie Skurnick 

Grand Central, Track 23

I forgot to tell you it’s almost time to go.
The sun has distilled its particular worn essence
And the glittering trout is flipped on the bow.

A man asks me what time it is. I don’t know.
I have emptied my purse and wept in the presence
Of onlookers. I forgot to remember to go

Before eleven, when the steely arrow
Shot swimming to its underneath, tense
As a stream of salmon in reverse below

The laureled, relentless clocks. The sceptered row
Of columns dreams one o’clock, immense,
Inviolate. What time is it? I don’t know.

This story concerns the night I tried to go—
Though many times I flopped into the silence
Of orange plastic seating like onto the bow

Of a lonely ship, and felt my breathing slow.
The frail, retreating stand of columns prevents
The clocks from telling me time and time again to go.

At my feet, a glittering trout swims past the bow.

Lizzie Skurnick



In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com.

Sleeping Lion by Colleen Plumb

Paired: Colleen Plumb + Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass (an excerpt)

I think I could turn and live with animals, they’re so placid and self contain’d, I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the earth.

Walt Whitman



In celebration of National Poetry Month, we’re introducing a new series called Paired, which will feature a 20x200 edition alongside a poem selected by a team member, friend, or collector each day in April. Submissions are welcome! Please write us at hello@20x200.com.