Cultuur & Literatuur
The American Poetry Review

The American Poetry Review July - August 2015

The American Poetry Review reaches a worldwide audience six times a year with the finest contemporary poetry, columns, interviews, photos, translations, and reviews. Every issue includes new voices, established masters, and exciting new translations.

United States
World Poetry, Inc
Meer lezen
€ 4,41(Incl. btw)
€ 24,54(Incl. btw)
6 Edities

in deze editie

4 min.
eight poems

Between the Tongue and the Warm Salt Dearling. Sweatheart. In the quantum spaces between words people understand each other. They meet in a central square and have a hot pretzel. They taste the same salt. Don’t be scared because we are ghosts to each other. I’m sorry I will leave you. Put your finger inside me. Taste my salt. We snap at each other while bombs kill people elsewhere. You put a skirt and ride your bicycle away. I’m sorry! I shout. When you turn around at the corner and start riding back, two journals will merge: the one I’m writing now, from birth to death, and the one my life’s writing backwards. Their lines appear to cross but a scientist would see space howling between the tongue and the warm salt. Here Are the Clues The refrigerator sighs at night while the house is sleeping. The provolone cheese just sits there, sits, sits, sits, until someone picks…

8 min.
nine poems

Ode to Those Who Study the Miasmas Praise all who wade into the swamp, rubber pants up to their waists, anti-venom in a phial around their necks, each with a pencil, a machete. The pencil for notes—what went wrong here, there, everywhere. You know what the machete does. The miasmatists try to find the root beginning at the end of where the root reaches. They sometimes die doing this: passing out food to the starving, the line so long they starve before it ends. They try to understand the world’s malice. Why one man smells a stink on another. Why a man (his grandfather before him, his son to succeed him) pie-charts the decades, the centuries, of blood-feud. The miasmatists stab a microscope into a living louse to count the lice that will emerge from its next deposit. They burn to minimize the returns. They’ll dive into the swamp, too, if they…

4 min.
five poems

Trouble Poem Every time the phone rings I think I’m in trouble. I’m in the stolen Honda again. I’m out in the park scratching my name into the picnic table with a pocket knife while my classmates get their diplomas. I’m falling backwards through the fog, pulled into it chin over finger over ribs over tongue, pried from the door jamb, dragged through the living room and the kitchen into the boulevard of trouble. It’s my mother calling. It’s the principal. It’s the cops shining their heavy flashlights through the windows of my mistakes. I want to say that I never run, that when trouble finds me I reach for the phone like a man who wants to stare his behavior in the face. I pull on my goggles and climb on my army green Triumph and accelerate into that cloud of spears and torches on the horizon, the dust covering…

4 min.
two poems

Mount Pleasant All night, six vagrants stood at our stoop chewing the fat out of a too stout story. She did this, did that, took that, she never, never, never, never, never, . . . A white fluttering, a thought, like headlights from a passing car, lights up this room where I’ve never been restful, never still. Outside, the buses must be un-routing. I hear their slow-going screech round the corner, engines dying. My neighbor’s a dinosaur, Bonnie, she’s lived here since the commune days, eats hemp seeds, I bet, always nods at me. It’s not her out there, but she’s in my head, the lonely field I imagine each night, awake again nowhere else to go. Never is a strange design, to name what can’t be or won’t begin. The hours quickening, never asleep. Or the trees’ silence incanting I’ll never belong. My silent habit is to listen: for I knew…

3 min.
five poems

What is wanted : to be scrubbed bone raw (they do it to the brides). Uneasy, this abiding of what cannot be removed. Skin troubles— a hand might sand me finely down (had I not amputated it). Briefly, I’ve forgotten the whole face of my desire : to slough off not mere extremity—but every part belonging to the air 0. This is not a sonnet 1. When I paint a square around a sphere you 2. pivot, cornered, and we have what is called 3. incompatible dimension. Fitting is a decision: what 4. volumes will I remove to swim beneath us 5. now, how surface? Failing to emerge, any stroke 6. becomes “stroke.” Eureka is the loud method 7. by which action is displaced with distraction. We 8. were supposed to go on and on. Being. I wanted 9. it ugly so I could complain, the way I did before 10. you,…

22 min.
lyric impulse in a time of extinction

LATELY, THE WORD EXTINCTION FLOATS AROUND IN MY INTERIOR conversations, spurred most obviously by environmental destruction, endless and senseless wars, and of course my own awareness of personal mortality. In the trips I’ve made over the last five years to see the Ice Age painted caves in France and Spain, art that’s between 10,000 and 40,000 years old, I saw the astounding cave Rouffignac, known as Cave of a Hundred Mammoths, where artists painted and engraved those great creatures, a trail of mammoths throughout the enormous tunnels. Whatever we have left of these beings seems precious. The startling depictions of the extinct mammals remind me that our ancestors coexisted with them and it was thrilling to be so near the art made by those who had studied and hunted the…