lemon juice from a plastic lemon

wreaking of insincerity walking to the mailbox
lost in front yard hands look gold
touching grassy knoll
head a raging suffocating battlefield lost to patriotic intoxication
failing deep in voiceless shadows
concrete path boxed, regulated weeds confronted and decimated
faces box house a tan shade against jack o lantern twilight

drink whiskey from dirty glass,
no dishes soaped tonight
kids lick television
fornicate social networking sites
wife rests head a pillow side
responsible trickster with a shrill voice at dawn

here her voice tempos deep, dull
vibration off stomach, meteor show pierces silent night
roman candles eating atmosphere with silver sharp teeth
electrolyte water sits bed side a recourse booze to sleep medication
dignity latches a fornicated blanket to our sleeping sweaty bodies
growing pounding heart beat claims
retreats, acts as a demigod,
plays with pets sleeping betwixt feet
poisons a gelatin mind
smooth teeth with that keen smile upturned


matthew wedlock (Taunton, MA, 1984)

a poet of malls and semi-lighted highways

"Hoagland is a poet of malls and semi-lighted highways and CNN feeds, more suburban than rural or urban. An awareness of the natural world hovers around the margins of his work, but don’t look to him for rolling lists of place names or ecological elegies. In one poem a bird has 'a cry like a cell phone,' and a creek trickles 'from dependent clause to interrogative.'

Elsewhere, 'tipsy drivers swerve/under the breathalyzer moon.' Smelling a woman’s perfume, he can’t help thinking of 'the destruction of a hundred flowers.' And not knowing what to do on a date, he thinks: 'If I were a bull penguin right now I would lean over/and vomit softly into the mouth of my beloved.'"


dwight garner on tony hoagland (Fort Bragg, NC, 1953), excerpt from ‘The Free Verse Is in Aisle 3’, published in Books of the Times, The New York Times, February 4, 2010



Further reading:

Tony Hoagland at The Poetry Foundation

Negative Capability: How to Talk Mean and Influence People (Poetry Daily) and Self-consciousness (nidus), essays by Tony Hoagland

and we're back!

Young American Poets, year three. Now open for submissions.

Read our guidelines!

Read our poetry!


The Young American Poets team

see you next year

the year is now almost over and we feel proud and satisfied with what YAP was in 2009, our second year online. of course, this could have never happened without you: contributors, readers, fellow bloggers and friends. thank you all very much! see you again in 2010.

Happy New Year!


The Young American Poets team

middle-aged man

middle-aged man
carrying a backpack
can't be up to any good

why isn't he
wearing a suit
riding first class amtrak

winning the bread
setting the example
doing what a man has to do

he don't have the answers

middle-aged man
carrying the worn-out backpack
can't be looked up to

wanders in random circles
shabby but not unkempt
for he stands up in battered dignity

carrying around his own life
which aside from that old backpack
is all he got now


glenn peters (Omaha, NE, 1971)

final weeks for 2009 poetry submissions

Write poetry? Then yap! We want your submissions!

Deadline for 2009 is December 21st. Materials sent after this date will not be considered.

The Young American Poets staff will resume poetry reviews on January 11th, 2010.

Read our guidelines here.


The Young American Poets team

dead end

Morose mornings are usually
caught on endings and shortcomings,
if you'll excuse my language:
it's the same bed but a different nightmare

A grizzly bear and a bleeding wound
likely to get infected by scores, lists,
diary entries as in thousands of them,
hidden text and verse unearthed

Appendix A: Musings of the rotten corpse
Appendix B: Handling third party tantrums
Appendix C, not listed (tear and wear marks, torn pages)
Epilogue: A long goodbye for Molly H.

Just as you got here, I'm off to nowhere
I'm of no use as a quite predictable narration
voiced over in stretched out lines
a setlist penned in a dried out dry pen
Ain't that funny, huh?

Pour some money here and some more there
the old joy of giving with renewed pleasures
and concealed stealing strategies
getting tricky and trickier by the minute

Sloppy to do lists, penned with fresh blood
and utter nonsense for sexy vamps,
old videos, Angus Young in shorts,
old enough to freak me out, a creep

Watermarks saying 'fire!'
a dead-end book for ghostly nights
scared, bored and setting the threshold:
no guns to tote, no will, not dangerous

but for the hardcovers


leonidas krull (Warsaw, IN, 1974)