The persistence of this anxiety betrays our uncertainty about either what constitutes death or what counts as poetry, but in either case, the concern is misdirected. It’s no longer the death of poetry, it’s “the death of poetry?”, question mark inevitably included. Poetry has been under threat of death for so long, entire generations have labored under the question of its demise, and now the condition itself has acquired permanent scare quotes. What is this passage? An inquiry result from a search engine that relies on algorithms that favor the fascinating? And is there any reason why whatever it is cannot be poetry? Ah daddy, I wanna stay drunk many days, he wrote, and did. She would have preferred to live perpetually in “l’heure de bleu.” Her dear friend Frank O’ Hara understood. Joan Mitchell—abstract painter of the first order, American expatriate living on Monet’s property in France, dedicated chromophile and drunk, possessor of a famously nasty tongue, and creator of arguably my favorite painting of all time, Les Bluets, which she painted in 1973, the year of my birth—found the green of spring incredibly irritating. Delerium tremens used to be called the “blue devils” (Burns, 1787.) In England “the blue hour” is happy hour at the pub. In German, to be blue— blau sein—means to be drunk.

Bird Lovers, Backyard by Thalia Field.

The Cloud Corporation by Timothy Donnelly.

The Mystery of the Hidden Driveway by Jennifer L.

Hymn for the Black Terrific by Kiki Petrosino.

End of the Sentimental Journey: A Mystery Poem by Sarah Vap.

A Small Story About the Sky by Alberto Ríos.

Bluets poetry