Contributors

Graham Foust

Contributor History

Twenty-Five Poems — (chosen by Robert Creeley), Conjunctions:43
A Place from Which to Wave: "Just Someone You Say Hi To" (A Wave, 1984), Conjunctions:49
Love Song, Online 02-02-2016
Seven Poems, Online 04-07-2021

Biography

Born in Tennessee and raised in Wisconsin, Graham Foust is the author of six books of poems, including To Anacreon in Heaven and Other Poems, a finalist for the Believer Poetry Award; and Time Down to Mind(both Flood Editions). With Samuel Frederick, he has also translated three books by the late German poet Ernst Meister, including Wallless Space (Wave Books). His latest book, Embarrassments, will be published by Flood Editions in May of 2021. He lives in Colorado and works at the University of Denver.

Connect

In Print

Conjunctions:77

States of Play: The Games Issue

Fall 2021
Bradford Morrow

Online

Blueberry Season

by David Ryan

January 26, 2022

It is a hot day out there and here inside the raw cool moronic hum of the conveyer you’re soothed by the song of that flat black path transporting items at a safe, considered pace to the terminus of this shopping haul, the ambulatory beeps from the cashier's key-padding or her face or the crown of her head or wherever the fuck it’s leaking out, this woman’s disinterest, her analog margin of error tempered through skilled human agency, foolproof PLUs, printed receipt. Love this grocery. You can’t go wrong here.

Two Poems

by Susan Stewart

January 19, 2022

Now that the little lies
accrue into the vast
incredulity, fear on fear
swells: a wave.

Slipping down the dune or
climbing? Who can tell?
The small cries, growing smaller,
fly past and vanish.

Sleeps

by Miranda Mellis

January 12, 2022

The hope of non-sleepers is sleep, sleep is the food of all living presence, and time is the food of sleep. Time is a physiological condition, in addition to being a pit of holes. Sleep and wake are genres. Despite all appearances to the contrary, and notwithstanding dreams, sleep is a season. If you jump ahead, skip episodes of sleep, fragment the night, you lose the poetry of daytime. Daytime becomes a plot-driven slog; all it thinks about is sleep.