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759 Poetry entries in Magazine

November, 2016

Untitled: #13 and #14

Phu Kradat gives voice to the people of rural Isan.  Mon thru Fri, Sat and Sun, no holds barred flea markets run from morning to morning open up their thing hustling bustles on Crown Property peddling motley commodities cheap consumer stuff foodstuff dried stuff fresh stuff live stuff dead stuff tangibles intangibles Wow, countless all whatevers to buy, sell, exchange! come in at your convenience, just shuffle on in they shuffle on in hesitating I hug my possibles bag grope for...

Metropolis Dynamics

This marks the first time that the Hungarian version of “Metropolis Dynamics” has been translated with its graphic layout and original linocuts intact. This browser does not support inline PDFs. Please download the PDF to view it: Download PDF Open PDF in another window © László Moholy-Nagy per arrangement with the Artists Rights Society. Translation © 2016 by Irina Denischenko and Bradley Gorski. All rights reserved. 

Printing: On Layout

Here, translator Duda has upgraded nonsense phrasings with a nod to our digital age, and designer Kwiecień-Janikowski maintains the dynamism of the printed version in his digital layout, but again with a clever nod to our temporal remove from the original.   Translation © 2016 by Paulina Duda. Design © 2016 by Wojtek Janikowski. All rights reserved.

New Art

Václavek attempts to outline the ways in which developments in engineering and socialized labor practices are integral models for contemporary art practice.  Translation and design © 2016 by Meghan Forbes. All rights reserved.

ButtsLoaDs

A visual manifestation of New Typography’s potential power and visual dynamism, Aleksić’s use of nonsense words and enigmatic phrases, and the inclusion of letterforms in multiple fonts and sizes moving in various directions, conjure the chaos of the stock market. Translation © 2016 by Jennifer Zoble and Aleksandar Bošković. Design © 2016 by Ian McLellan Davis. All rights reserved.

October, 2016

The Visitor

KTM Iqbal considers the inevitable. You shroud us in magic. Wrapping you around us, we vanish, one by one. You alone can unravel life’s tight knots. You are not slumber, but an awakening. Eternal life begins for all who embrace you. O death, who ends all our deaths, Come, beloved guest. All of us wait to receive you,  serving our lives. © KTM Iqbal. Translation © 2016 by Kavitha Karuum. All rights reserved. Translated as part of Translators Lab 2015, co-organized...

Reader

KTM Iqbal reflects on the condition of being a writer With aching hands  I walk  the paper journey  just to catch your eye.  I strike out, rewrite  just to earn a good name from you.  Page after page, I tear out  just so you will not tear me up.  I write  just so I can read you.  In the bookstores,  not only my books,  but you are there too.  Don’t search for me  on the cover— that is my mask. ...

Wheels

Japanese poet Takako Arai conjures an unvanquishable ghost, who literally left work undone. Video: Takako Arai and Jeffrey Angles read “Wheels” (credits below) A fire’s coming! It’ll be here soon! A female snake kept warning us For ages it lived in the storage above the closet We grew up hearing its voice Each time we laid out the bedding My sister and I could hardly stand it We’d lie anxiously in wait, temples pounding It’s coming! It’ll be...

September, 2016

Two Untitled Prose Poems

Italian poet Giampiero Neri reflects on solitude and exile. It may seem odd that an episode recounted in a poem, as mere information, lends itself to being misunderstood. The episode is the Homeric one about the island of the Feaci and the misunderstanding is their so-called hospitality, by now almost proverbial. Dashed on the shore by the waves, miraculously safe, Ulysses is helped by Nausicaa, but must meet the Feaci and first of all their king Alcinoo. The prospect is dangerous and...

Three Poems from “Tattoos”

German–born Eva Taylor considers the process of inhabiting a new land and a new language. Kleidleid...

I am leaving you Europe

In the following poem, Hajdari evokes Halil, the mythic character of the cycle of Albanian epic narrative poems (the Albanian Songs of the Frontier Warriors); Jutbina, a borderland between Albania and ex-Yugoslavia; and Bjeshkët e Nëmuna: the Cursed Mountains, as the northern Albanian Alps are called. I am leaving you Europe, corrupt old whore. Your ruins no longer enchant me, your mirrors and abysses have misled my exile, wounded my wretched body of the East in front of false...

Sing Ladino

Yankev Glatshteyn mines the richness of Yiddish, pushing its limits.  Sing Ladino, you blond songer, Our magicjargonino, Multicolored chattering, Multitongued languageing Sundownino, nino-nino, Finegolden radiating, bursting— Multicoloredthoughtingness. All the breads, all the deaths, All the taigas, all the tundras, All the wonders multicolored, Multirhymerino, Multiguesterino, All the wicks, all the skins, Yellowred and Falashino, Palestino speakerino, Ours, our...

August, 2016

From “The Ringing of the Rain has a Forgiving Grace”

11-14 A tangerine sun gave my birdcage a ripe rinsing Its spacious temporary closure is uncommonly loud and clear Dead ringer for a dime   12-25 Fingertips are spark-tinted. Their milk contains one-percent fat Slow results. Delay dowager’s hump. Low-lying pain. A leaky fist. I am willing to carve you a ten-second slice of winter. 嘹亮的雨水有原諒的美 © Ye Mimi. By arrangement with the author....

We Deliver More Than We Promise

Everything but everything was just so sweet To cater to his every wish To allow him to do exactly as he pleased with me To sacrifice the self I’d lost completely Entirely to him It was all so trivial it’s hardly worth mentioning But it shimmered with light I’m a pig, he said, isn’t that right? I’m the pig, I said, you’re just an idiot We were like vodka with a vodka chaser and a litter of kids who were just like honey Our kids will never forget vodka...

July, 2016

Coral Reef

Imaginary distances part from this spot, mirages which tell of the true distances between us. A man planted in front of the window is a ghost of himself suspended by improbable lines and colors. We are him and he is all of us as if we were yet the city around him. We are him and his slumped shoulders. We are him and his face gnawed by fish. We are him and the narrow streets that cut across him and stick through him like poles shackles and other senseless forms of nostalgia (like all forms...

ithaca

if you want to journey to ithaca call ahead because it looks like everything in ithaca is full restaurants, bars cheap hotels pricey hotels you can't travel to the ionian sea anymore  without reservations  and the ten-hour trip feels like ten years stopping in egypt? don't even think about it and the duty-free shops are full of perfumes you can buy with a credit card. your whole life you've wanted  to visit greece it was a childhood dream conceived in adulthood...

Ephemeral Invention

After Ferreira Gullar It’s this body through which I discern myself a body made of flesh and desire of limestone and fuel of sap and ecstasy of clay and wind carbon fiber and shit. This body which, prone to dejection, at times boasts such grandeur such nobility a window onto my own illusions that, as I walk the streets, others anoint with the same name my mother gave me the one the notary public recorded in his notepad. A body —head torso and limbs skin guts smiles and...

June, 2016

Trilingual Day of Rain

stone over stone s i l e n c e   il pleut aujourd’hui au Fort Chambly il pleut exactement comme il pleuvait il y a 400 ans il pleut comme il pleuvait il y a 1 400 ans il pleut comme il pleuvait il y a 11 400 ans 11 400 années de pluie as rain falls this afternoon a man in wet clothes stares at stone over stone the low clouds, the rain in s i l e n c e   Louis XVI reinaba en Francia en Nueva Francia llovía sobre las piedras y los bosques sobre la piel del...

The Flowers of War

the flowers of war open at night on boulevard Saint-Laurent a line from Lorca a word from Castellanos a body unharmed by the siege of Sarajevo a bomb that didn’t explode in Hanoi or Baghdad and the sweet lips of women in winter are enough to make dawn bear fruit on this corner on boulevard Saint-Laurent best if you don’t know who you are best if you don’t know where you’re from best if you don’t know where you’re going the boulevard’s flowers in...

The God of Tar and Bone

a man standing on the tracks stares at a train as it advances with a moan of metal and night the iron moves the blind diesel thrusts the siren wails the feverish headlight lights up and splits the chest of the earth and forest but the man stays still before the apparatus still ten meters left and he just stares and stares at the invention that will chop him split him shatter him he lacks no strength or ability     to thrust his body to one side he can jump run dodge save...

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