John W. Evans

  ENKIDU: THREE RONDEAU But Enkidu opened his mouth and said, ‘I am weak, my arms have lost their strength, the cry of sorrow sticks in...
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Letters: 29 April 2013

Readers respond to Robert Archambeau's essay, "Who is a Contemporary Poet?"; comment on the state of American fiction; and ask why African writers are so underrepresented in our pages.

Vlas Doroshevich

“Human thought is a restless thing and so Allah himself provided an outlet for it - the mouth,” the Grand Vizier countered. “It’s unthinkable that if a person has a thought he would keep it to himself and not divulge it to anyone. We ought to know people’s innermost thoughts, those they only share with those closest to them, when they are not afraid of being eavesdropped on.”

Friday Pick: Marek Krajewski’s Dark Conjuring Act

Open the pages of one of Marek Krajewski’s Eberhard Mock novels and you plunge into a unique and haunting world. It is a world pressed between the oppressive shadows of the two World Wars and seemingly losing its mind because of it ...

Robert Archambeau: Who Is A Contemporary Poet?

What does it mean to be a contemporary poet? It's a trickier question than it seems, and not just because of the difficulty in defining poetry. In fact, the greater part of the difficulty may come in defining the nature of the contemporary.

Julie Maclean

Had a friend, a Francophile / who beat me up in a tent / near Bordeaux / .... / Nutter, Twat / I don’t know / the French for that

Tara Skurtu

Before you knew words, you’d toddle / open-mouthed, chomp down on the leg // of a table, couch arm, seated ass / of a grown-up...

Nora Iuga

And suddenly I saw comrade Weed get up fast in the moonlight, and I heard a Jesus-fuckin’-Christ immediately muffled by the mat-lined earthen walls. That’s when I made out my friend’s greenish, frozen face, her eyelids lowered, her mouth gasping for air like a fish in an aquarium without water.

Friday Pick: All of You on the Good Earth by Ernest Hilbert

It is refreshing to read poetry that doesn't have to bullshit about what it is. Hilbert can write a sonnet that sounds so natural - and so casually American - that heard aloud, one might not even recognize it for what it is. Or rather, one would recognize it for exactly what it is: great poetry.

Jill McDonough

Wood / Waste of Boston: who knew I’d get to see those tractors, front end loaders swarming / over the pile of fiberglass, drywall, discarded cupboards, chewed up into wood

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