Amit Majmudar

Amit Majmudar Poems

Hrhm Shp, colt-culling,
Is what hoof lore calls it—
The choke-chain sound a roan coined
...

Into the rood wood, where the grain's current splits
around the stones of its knots, carve eyelashes and eyelids.
Dye the knots, too—indigo, ink-black, vermillion
...

Some species can crack pavement with their shoots
to get their share of sun some species lay
a purple froth of eggs and leave it there
...

Hell-raiser, razor-feathered
risers, windhover over
Peshawar,
...

Every tripod-
toting birder
knows it never
nests on urban
...

Off with the wristwatch, the Reeboks, the belt.
My laptop's in a bin.
I dig out the keys from my jeans and do
my best Midwestern grin.
...

Richer than mother's milk
is half-and-half.
Friends of two minds,
...

Life likes a little mess. All patterns need a snarl.
The best patterns know how best to heed a snarl.
...

Lead-lined gonad-guards.
Lysol (radiation sickness causes killer runs).
Breadboxes, to bury stillbirths.
...

Amit Majmudar Biography

Amit Majmudar is an American novelist and poet. In 2015, he was named Poet Laureate of Ohio. Majmudar grew up in the Cleveland area. He earned a BS at the University of Akron and an MD at Northeast Ohio Medical University. He is a diagnostic radiologist specializing in nuclear medicine practicing full-time in Columbus, Ohio, where he lives with his wife Ami and his twin sons, Shiv and Savya. His poems have appeared in The Antioch Review, Image, Poetry, Poetry Northwest, National Poetry Review, The New England Review, Smartish Pace, and The New Yorker.)

The Best Poem Of Amit Majmudar

Horse Apocalypse

Hrhm Shp, colt-culling,
Is what hoof lore calls it—
The choke-chain sound a roan coined
To describe the things he saw
Before the sniff weevils crept
Up his nostrils and chewed
His eyes at the hue-sweet root.



Mother mares scare foals
From folly-trots and foxglove
By telling them fury tales
Of muck stirrup-deep and shells
Shoveling Passchendaele
Onto Passchendaele,
The foal fallen with the boy.



One memory, common
To all breeds, spurs night mares
Sparking down the mute streets
Of their sleep, gas-blind
Witnesses scraping Krupp
Guns over the cobblestones,
Winged sparks breeding in the hay.



Having watched us box and ditch
Our dead, they thought our dead
Ate termite-runnels
In the black bark of the land
And pulled all horsefolk down
To join whatever dark cavalry
Thundered underground.



The burlap gas mask cupped
And strapped to the wet snout
Could be mistaken, when
The gas gong sounded
And the men grew fly-heads,
For a feed sack chock-
Full of red ants.

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