NOVEMBER 2017. THE SCARRIET POETRY HOT 100.

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1) Sushmita Gupta— When the waves lashed and the clouds loomed and I was alone.

2) Diane Seuss— I could do it. I could walk into the sea!

3) Rachel  McKibbens— as you lie still within the soft forgotten witch of your body

4) Daipayan Nair— The maker of a house carries its hardness.

5) Eminem— The best part about me is I am not you.

6) Sharon Olds—  I had not put it into words yet, the worst thing

7) Natasha Trethewey— two small trout we could not keep.

8) Billy Collins— The name of the author is the first to go

9) Terrance Hayes— but there are tracks of your syntax about the land

10) Robert Pinsky— The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

11) Bob Dylan— How does it feel?

12) Dan Sociu— the quakes moving/ for nothing, under uninhabited regions. (trans. Ana-Maria Tone)

13) Ben Mazer— Mother then/I am your son/The King.

14) Denise Duhamel— Ken wants to feel Barbie’s toes between his lips

15) Molly Fisk—  Then someone you love. And then you.

16) Sherman Alexie— They were common people who believed only in the thumb and the foot.

17) Jorie Graham— the infinite finding itself strange among the many

18) Charles Simic— Have you found a seat in your room/For every one of your wayward selves?

19) Louise Glück— In her heart, she wants them to go away.

20) Richard Howard— inspired by some wag’s verbose variations on the theme of semi-porn bric-a-brac

21) Donald Hall— so that she could smell the snowy air.

22) Stephen Cole— For the knowing heart the known heart cannot know.

23) Laura Kasischke— as if the worship of a thing might be the thing that breaks it.

24) Mary Ruefle— the dead borrow so little from the past.

25) Tony Hoagland— Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.

26) Kevin Young— a freshman, I threw/a Prince party, re-screwed/ the lights red & blue

27) Maxine Beneba Clarke— penny lane/on the Beatles trail/all the locals say and they nod/as if for sure they know/our tourist game

28) Carolyn Forché— What you have heard is true.

29) Mary Jo Bang— A plane lit down and left her there.

30) Dan Beachy-Quick— Drab bird unseen in the dark dark’s underbrush

31) Carl Dennis— Which for all you know is the life you’ve chosen.

32) Christian Wiman—  Do you remember the rude nudists?

33) Stanley Plumly— I clapped my hands just for the company.

34) Major Jackson— All seeing is an act of war.

35) Gary B. Fitzgerald— A life is gone and, hard as rock, diamonds glow in jet black skies.

36) Mary Angela Douglas—  the larks cry out and not with music

37) A.E. Stallings— From the weeds of the drowned.

38) Joe Green—  the teacup is filled with the eyelashes of owls

39) Dorianne Laux—  It’s tough being a guy, having to be gruff and buff

40) Collin Yost— I’ll love you when you’re mad at me

41) Rupi Kaur— Don’t tell me my women aren’t as beautiful as the ones in your country

42) Wendy Cope— The planet goes on being round.

43) Warsan Shire— when the men come, set yourself on fire.

44) Savannah Brown— Hi, I’m a slut. What?!

45) Brenna Twohy— My anxiety is a camera that shows everyone I love as bones

46) Lily Myers— My mother wanes while my father waxes

47) Imani Cezanne— Addiction is seeking comfort in that which is destroying you.

48) Ada Limón— What’s left of the woods is closing in.

49) Olivia Gatewood— resting bitch face, they call you

50) Vincent Toro—  This island like a basket/of laundry 

51) Koraly Dimitriadis— the day I moved out, I took my wedding dress to mum’s house

52) Nayuka Gorrie— I lose it and find it and lose it again.

53) Hera Lindsay Bird— Keats is dead so fuck me from behind

54) Marie Howe— Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?

55) Valerie Macon— You are the boss of your canvas

56) Patricia Lockwood—  OK, the rape joke is that he worshiped The Rock.

57) Danielle Georges—  O poorest country, this is not your name.

58) Frank Bidart—  In the evening she takes a lethal dose of poison, and on the following morning she is dead.

59) Eileen Myles— I write behind your back.

60) Leila Chatti— Are you also dreaming? Do you still worship me, now that I’m here?

61) Claudia Rankine—  After the initial presidential election results come in, I stop watching the news.

62) Anne Carson—  I can hear little clicks inside my dream.

63) William Logan—  the pastel salons require/the formalities of skin

64) Marilyn Chin—  lust drove men to greatness, not goodness, not decency.

65) George Bilgere—  The mysteries/from the public library, due

66) Robin Coste Lewis—  what’s greyed/In and grey slinks ashamed down the drain.

67) Daniel Borzutzky—  hieroglyphics painted on the/walls of financiers who accumulate capital through the/unjustified sexual behavior of adulterous/women

68) Maggie Smith—  Any decent realtor,/walking you through a real shithole, chirps on/about good bones

69) Kim Addonnizio—  a man who was going to be that vulnerable,/that easy and impossible to hurt.

70) Kay Ryan—  If it please God,/let less happen.

71) Dana Gioia—  there is no silence but when danger comes.

72) Megan Fernandez— The bullet is a simple, adolescent heartache.

73) Kushal Poddar— My mom, a wheelchair since two thousand and one

74) Sascha Aurora Akhtar— I ate/But I am/Hungrier than before

75) Jennifer Reeser— your coldness and my idealism/alone for all this time have kept us true.

76) Linda Ashok—  a sudden gust of Kalbaisakhi/changed the conversation.

77) Ramsha Ashraf— tremble and tremble and tremble/With every kiss

78) Amber Tamblyn— If it had been Hillary Clinton, this would’ve never happened to Harvey Weinstein.

79) Ruth Awad— Nothing grows from me except the dead

80) Merryn Juliette— I will love her all insane

81) Nathan Woods— The best poems swell the lungs.

82) Nahid Arjouni— My headscarf will shudder if you speak with anyone. (trans. Shohreh Laici)

83) Philip Nikolayev— the fool moon/couldn’t stand the iambic pentameter any longer

84) Saira Shah Halim— The rains left behind a petrichor of shared verses

85) Jay Z— I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man.

86) Nalini Priyadarshni— mostly bookish, as sinfulness should be

87) Mark Doty— Into Eden came the ticks, princes of this world, heat-seeking, tiny

88) Paige Lewis— I’m making love easy for everyone.

89) Mary Oliver—  You don’t have to be good.

90) Lyn Hejinian— to change this nerdy life upon row upon row upon row

91) Afaa Weaver— I stand here where I was born,/ and the masks wait for me.

92) Alex Dimitrov— What is under the earth followed them home.

93) Ben Lerner— jumpsuits, they have changed/painting

94) Wendy Videlock— the owl devours/ the hour,/ and disregards/ the rest

95) Joie Bose— I own that you from that night in November

96) Amy Gerstler— Pardon my/frontal offensive, dear chum.

97) Nathaniel Mackey—  Some new Atlantis known as Lower/Ninth we took leave of next

98) W.S. Merwin— into a world he thought was a thing of the past

99) Juan Felipe Herrera— Where is our exile? Who has taken it?

100) Charles Bernstein—  Think about it, Mr./Fanelli.

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5 Comments

  1. #44 support said,

    November 7, 2017 at 4:31 pm

    44. Savannah Brown

    Hi, I’m A Slut

    hi, i’m a slut. what? you can’t be surprised
    when you’ve spent my entire life deciding woman equals sexualize,
    in ninth grade a man told me i have good blow job eyes
    hi, i’m a slut. but what does that mean
    i’m unclean, i’m less pure, i sleep around, sure
    but isn’t that what you were begging for?
    hi, i’m a slut. and science disagrees
    but let’s ignore anatomy and joke that my vagina is wide enough to fit
    an entire football team or, even,
    your narcissism
    but no one’s is big enough for that

    you think an orgasm for you is like oxygen for me
    like when i am going down on you i’m actually sucking up life
    retrieving my very soul from inside your stomach
    and an orgasm for me is like—well, maybe. if you have time
    and since you can’t see it it probably doesn’t exist anyway
    i was probably faking it anyway, women don’t like sex anyway
    you’re pretty sure the clitoris is just a myth
    so when it comes to my pleasure no one really gives a shit
    unless i can come like a man because then i’m a fetish

    or if i’m a virgin. that makes me a fetish too
    but doesn’t that also mean i’m a prude
    everything i do is an invitation for your condemnation
    regardless of the angle of the delicate arch in my back
    marked down on your scale from zero to loose
    and if i had learned anything that didn’t have to do with
    how to make my hair fall daintily over my breasts
    or how to make my lips softer and more like a graveyard
    untouched and where grown men go when they feel dead inside
    or how to make my aura more alluring, but not too alluring
    that’s something a skank would do
    i’d tell you that when two opposing forces meet they cancel
    so it sounds to me like you just don’t want me to exist.

    i am raw meat in a slaughterhouse
    packaged according to what you are hungry for that day
    i am identified by my thighs and my moans and my sighs
    even though you keep telling me i shouldn’t be making noise in the first place
    keep your mouth shut unless i’m the one putting something in it
    it’s funny, the ones who cry whore the loudest
    are the ones who are thirstiest for my blood

    and my love only starts to matter and
    stops being make-believe, a fantasy when you’re watching lesbian porn
    but they quickly discover that actually
    what they’ve been missing this whole time is your cock
    you’re looking to “experiment” in the same way i must be “experimenting”
    like a science fair where the prize for
    equating my entire personhood to your dick
    is that you get two women who are disgusted by how your
    breath reeks of desperation instead of just one

    you’re damn right my body is a temple
    i am the god it was built for

    i am the landlord
    and i can let whoever i want live inside it

    hi, i’m a slut and no, that doesn’t mean
    i am nothing but flesh to grab
    with your red stained hands
    that you’ve sterilized with excuses in case i shout
    so when i do you can tell everyone that
    hi, i’m a slut and no
    and that doesn’t mean i am nothing
    but sweat and blow job eyes
    hi, i’m a slut
    and no that doesn’t mean i am nothing but the girl who was asking for it
    hi, i’m a slut and no,
    and that doesn’t mean i am nothing

    https://femmefocus101.wordpress.com/2016/03/07/hi-im-a-slut/

  2. #8 support said,

    November 7, 2017 at 4:42 pm

    8. Billy Collins

    Forgetfulness

    The name of the author is the first to go
    followed obediently by the title, the plot,
    the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
    which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

    as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
    decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
    to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

    Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
    and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
    and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

    something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
    the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

    Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
    it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
    or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

    It has floated away down a dark mythological river
    whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

    well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
    who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

    No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
    to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
    No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
    out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/37695/forgetfulness

  3. #100 support said,

    November 7, 2017 at 10:19 pm

    100. Charles Bernstein

    Dear Mr. Fanelli,

    I saw your picture
    in the 79th street
    station. You said
    you’d be interested
    in any comments I
    might have on the
    condition of the
    station Mr. Fanelli,
    there is a lot of
    debris in the 79th street
    station that makes it
    unpleasant to wait in
    for more than a few
    minutes. The station
    could use a paint
    job and maybe
    new speakers so you
    could understand
    the delay announcements
    that are always being
    broadcast. Mr.
    Fanelli—there are
    a lot of people sleeping
    in the 79th street station
    & it makes me sad
    to think they have no
    home to go to. Mr.
    Fanelli, do you think
    you could find a more
    comfortable place for them
    to rest? It’s pretty noisy
    in the subway, especially
    all those express trains
    hurtling through every
    few minutes, anyway when the
    trains are in service.
    I have to admit, Mr. Fanelli, I
    think the 79th street station’s
    in pretty bad shape
    & sometimes at night
    as I toss in my bed
    I think the world’s
    not doing too good
    either, & I
    wonder what’s going
    to happen, where we’re
    headed, if we’re
    headed anywhere, if
    we even have heads. Mr.
    Fanelli, do you think if
    we could just start
    with the 79th street
    station & do what
    we could with that
    then maybe we could,
    you know, I guess, move
    on from there? Mr.
    Fanelli, when I saw your
    picture & the sign
    asking for suggestions
    I thought, if
    you really wanted to
    get to the bottom
    of what’s wrong then
    maybe it was my job
    to write to you: Maybe
    you’ve never been inside
    the 79th street station
    because you’re so busy
    managing the 72nd street
    & 66th street stations,
    maybe you don’t know
    the problems we have
    at 79th—I mean the
    dirt & frequent
    delays & the feeling of
    total misery that
    pervades the place. Mr.
    Fanelli, are you reading
    this far in the letter
    or do you get so
    many letters every day
    that you don’t have
    time to give each
    one the close attention
    it desires? Or am I
    the only person who’s
    taken up your invitation
    to get in touch &
    you just don’t have enough
    experience to know how to
    respond? I’m sorry
    I can’t get your attention
    Mr. Fanelli because I really
    believe if you ask
    for comments then you
    ought to be willing
    to act on them—even
    if ought is too
    big a word to throw
    around at this point.
    Mr. Fanelli
    I hope you won’t
    think I’m rude
    if I ask you a
    personal question. Do
    you get out of the
    office much?
    Do you go to the movies
    or do you prefer
    sports—or maybe
    quiet evenings at a
    local restaurant? Do
    you read much, Mr. Fanelli?
    I don’t mean just
    Gibbons and like
    that, but philosophy—
    have you read much
    Hanna Arendt or
    do you prefer
    a more ideological
    perspective?
    I think if I understood
    where you are coming from,
    Mr. Fanelli, I could
    write to you more cogently,
    more persuasively. Mr.
    Fanelli, do you get out
    of the city at all—I
    mean like up to Bear
    Mountain or out to
    Montauk? I mean do you
    notice how unpleasant
    the air is in the 79th
    street station—that we
    could use some cooling
    or air-filtering system
    down there? Mr.
    Fanelli, do you think
    it’s possible we
    could get together
    and talk about
    these things in
    person? There are
    a few other points
    I’d like to go over
    with you if I could
    get the chance. Things
    I’d like to talk to
    you about but that
    I’d be reluctant to
    put down on paper.
    Mr. Fanelli, I haven’t
    been feeling very good
    lately and I thought
    meeting with you face
    to face might change
    my mood, might put
    me into a new frame
    of mind. Maybe we
    could have lunch?
    Or maybe after work?
    Think about it, Mr.
    Fanelli.

    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50750/dear-mr-fanelli

  4. #94 support said,

    November 7, 2017 at 10:25 pm

    94. Wendy Videlock

    The Owl

    Beneath her nest,
    a shrew’s head,
    a finch’s beak
    and the bones
    of a quail attest

    the owl devours
    the hour,
    and disregards
    the rest.

  5. Mr. Woo said,

    November 9, 2017 at 5:19 pm

    I’m honored to be mentioned in such company! And have posted the poem in full, for purely selfish reasons.

    81. The Best Poems

    The best poems are the big spoons
    And know just where to touch
    A stanza’s curves so that it swoons
    At just before too much;

    And they please each line by clasping
    Each word in loving tongues,
    You’ll know them from their gasping,
    The best poems swell the lungs.


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