Boyhood friends meet again after years apart, sparking a trip through the narrator’s memory that leads to a forgotten—and harrowing—episode.    Listen to Eduardo Plaza read "Hyenas" in the original Spanish.   1 Miguel Rodewald and I were good friends. We knew each other because his family, who lived in Temuco, used to spend their summers in Coquimbo. When they were kids his father used to rent a house a few blocks from ours, in El Llano. We’d...

The poet reflects on death and rebirth.    Make me more simple. Extinguish the greater part of my life.   If to burn is my destiny, permit me to turn to ash the dry leaves at the feet  of trees so that they might one day become a greater forest.   Tell the sad stories to the sky: the orchid dying before it blooms; the fruit dropping before bearing seeds; the bird who, lost in smoke, lost its nest as well—so as to make her cry, for her to...

Linnéa Axelsson’s August Prize-winning epic traces Sami history in the twentieth century.   X Vass Valley. Fall 1920 (Aslat the dead) You left me  on the Swede’s farm alone and wrapped in my large kolt - I didn’t stay there - One fall and one winter we cried together Then you joined the herd and left As for me I spread my kolt into wings and flew away blood drained  from my body and vanished - I couldn’t stay Where I had fallen...

Adrian Perera reflects on the stereotyped expectations faced by immigrant poets.    Interview. Time: 15:42 The journalist says she gets it. “I have a friend from Africa. I want you to know, I get it.” I crawl inside myself,  past my sweaty pits and hear myself say  I’m not accusing her of anything.     32. What’s in a name? she asks, with her blonde hair, ponytail, and blue-eyed gaze, her memories of summer cottages,...

Spoken Word poet Nino Mick skewers the absurdity of bureaucracy in matters of gender and identity.    First visit.   I'm here because I want to be left alone   Gender Survey:   In order to proceed, I need access to your body i.e. brain your life i.e. sex life your medical history your stories   Second visit.     Have I completed a gender survey so I can cope with being a poet or am I a poet in order to cope with the gender survey so...

In this ode to the late Assia Djebar, Habib Tengour remembers Algeria through her voice.  Listen to Habib Tengour read "Celebration of the Absent One" in the original French. For Eliane, Mireille, and Regina                                   We dreamed of a phlegmatic life for you                                  ...

In this poem, the speaker leads us across a landscape of grieving deserts and volcanic desire.  Listen to Samira Negrouche read "In the Shadow of Grenada" in the original French.   Shadow you  in a desire for darkness Night will close its voices to you night will take pleasure in the dew                                            of its...

In this meditation on time, memory, and the usefulness of expectations, nothing is what it seems.   Listen to Samira Negrouche read "Minus One" in the original French.   The outflow of your drifting— up until now you’ve slid along the road I would like in a faraway language to tell you what I don’t understand  ** Nothing pulls you back from doubt any longer from obsession  from seeding  your body is amnesia   plural...

The poet eulogizes the revolutionary fighter and guerilla leader of Algeria's National Liberation Front, Ali la Pointe.   Pour Ali la Pointe   Here where each day calls out to our suffering Here where each step chains our desire for hope Here where everything cries out misfortune violence famine Here where blood is confirmed silently and grief gains ground He died. Died buried under a pile of rubble While he trampled hatred down with his proud blood So that the roots...

In this excerpt from La nuit du dedans, the poet reflects on the secret corners of his home.    X Who will tell the sun about my land my harried medlar tree my springtime without nervures  my helpful hand Who will recount my rootless garden  and my door open to all comers my night of faraway sounds my wheat that absorbs the hours  Who will cure me of my sequestration  and sweet secret —my monochrome dream my space gone gray at the temples ...

Franciane Conceicao Silva considers how racial relations in Brazil have affected literary history.  As the inquisition questions my existence and belittles the blackness of my body-word in the semantics of my verses, I carry on [ . . .] I carry on in search of other words, words that are still damp, voices drowned.   —Conceição Evaristo In my take on Afro-Brazilian literature in Brazil, I chose to consider first the works that had the most cultural...

In these four poems, Christiane Sobral breaks down the door, is spat on by a dragon and deliberately burns the beans in the pot.   Black Eye I am a black renegade I refuse the mirror daily Which tries to massacre me inside Which tries to deceive me with white lies Which tries to discolor me with its rays of light I am a black renegade Determined to face the system I drum up the black without a hitch I bum-rush the stage I am a black renegade I advocate a necessary...

This selection of writings is by no means or intention a full and general picture of Vietnamese literature. The reading choice returns/moves toward the presences, the ruins, and the enduring silences of writers-in-between, the hyphenated writers, the writers who hide themselves, the writers of unshareable struggles. The past, the present of the past, the present. North, South, the North in South, the South in North. Inside and outside. Here and there. Vietnamese and English. The fallen and...

A piece of furniture in an unusual location sparks a series of interrogations.      a velvet chair             standing by itself                         on a highway a chair standing by itself on a highway             means its life is over a life of ups and downs             before it was...

These translated, cut-up and reassembled Vietnamese texts are by Nguyễn-Hoàng Quyên, originals by Nguyễn Quốc Chánh (“Syndrome,” “Fucking Skulls Open”), Bùi Giáng (“Sương Tỳ Hải”), and Nhã Thuyên (“taste of waters”).   birds one by one penetrates a gap, disappearing wings disappearing songs, beaks remain, cut open one another’s eyes, napes, death...

A frustrated wife and mother finds life in a fishbowl instructive in this story translated from the Mongolian.   I've been in here for exactly one year. My once fair and delicate skin, the envy of all the other ladies, has hardened into scales mottled with red and pink splotches. A year, exactly one year. People have thought that I have been a fish for exactly one year. Regardless of what other people say, what really matters to me is that three hundred and sixty-five...

In "Vengeance," Norov Dalkhaa weaves a Mongolian Buddhist folk legend that dogs have the reincarnated souls of humans into an urban parable of sex, jealousy, and violence.   Listen to Norov Dalkhaa read "Vengeance" in the original Mongolian.     The black dog's large brown eyes drew Chuluun's attention. They didn't seem to be dog's eyes at all. The dog stared at Demchig, not even moving when Chuluun waved his hands and feet at it. Uzmee looked as fragile...

The human embryo has a special status because of its potential for development to a stage at which everyone would accord it the status of a human person. —The Warnock Committee (U.K.), Report on Human Fertilisation and Embryology, 1984   Children born by artificial insemination will also be problematic, for their lives have developed as a result of the destruction of numerous embryos. —Patriarch Ilia II of Georgia, Christmas Epistle, January 2014   Listen to...

Lela Samniashvili reflects on the terrible costs of war Listen to Lela Samniashvili read her poem "Military Drill" in the original Georgian.   Three years ago, during the war, our house was burgled. When I returned everything was upside down, Our possessions had probably borne those alien fingers with hatred. They stole my gold ring and several bottles of wine. They were probably in a hurry—only the drawers had been emptied.  They took nothing from the shelves. And yet I...

Georgian poet Lela Samniashvili on the "fatal defect" of time, and the past in the present Listen to poet Lela Samniashvili read "A Run in My Stocking" in the original Georgian If I leave, you will always be tortured with the feeling of guilt that you could not leave me. But from where I look at it, “always” seems so short, just like the past, or the future. The future— What do we know about it? There are precisely as many types of futures  as we want and even...