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The American Poetry Review

The American Poetry Review March - April 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.

Land:
United States
Taal:
English
Uitgever:
World Poetry, Inc
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6 Edities

in deze editie

5 min.
four poems

I Mistyped “Jump” and so saw, as if risen up from a kind of community plasm, how the rage my body shares with the rest of the species, a blanketing crimson rage, a dagger-shape of rage, the kind that seized control of Allie J on finding her man in the back booth with Yolanda and resulted in a bottle in her fist and (from her man) a torn aorta and (Yolanda) a muddle of teeth and blood on the floor is also the rage—the same splenetic haze and dagger— that drives the warriors, crazy for death, with death in their hearts, with crazy in their hearts, to the enemy village, over the wall of thorns around its kraal, half-a-planet away from Bobby’s Beer & Billiards on South Sixteenth. Also, the chains of flowers the children sing their rhymes about (and have for thousands of years) in the village clearing…

1 min.
two poems

Racetrack Velvet and shit: I summoned it and come it did. The horses’ flanks are rank with sweat and flies and I remember you between my legs achieving for an hour or so. We parted on the best of terms: the sweet unsayable loss that’s gain in drag. The day hurt a little brighter for all that sharpening. I have a turnstile heart; it opens madly and shuts just so. In morning cold, the horses’ breath takes on the shape of terrible blooms. The hoof-stamps sound less urgently. I’m not talking about my heart. Safehouse Despite lightning, despite god rearranging his furniture, I feel safe as houses. When houses were safe: from mudslides, arson, quakes. Houses were never safe, I suppose, from human intent or force of nature, only the concept of home, & that’s internal, & malleable. Come to think of it, I don’t really feel safe in this city, in this building, in this…

2 min.
two poems

Object Permanence [ for John] We wake as if surprised the other is still there, each petting the sheet to be sure. How have we managed our way to this bed—beholden to heat like dawn indebted to light. Though we’re not so self-important as to think everything has led to this, everything has led to this. There’s a name for the animal love makes of us—named, I think, like rain, for the sound it makes. You are the animal after whom other animals are named. Until there’s none left to laugh, days will start with the same startle and end with caterpillars gorged on milkweed. O, how we entertain the angels with our brief animation. O, how I’ll miss you when we’re dead. In Igboland After plagues of red locusts are unleashed by a jealous god hell-bent on making a scene, her way of saying…

2 min.
letters to c

I At three in the afternoon, I’m the most demanding woman in the world . . . When it’s over, six in the afternoon comes, also indescribable, in which I turn blind. —Lispector to Fernando Sabino, 1946 Dear C, I’m turning from. Have been syntaxed and stirred into a purple. Blurred to blind. I made a mess of page twenty-two, Couldn’t resurrect what you left unsaid into words that wouldn’t. Do you believe in grieving? I mean for language, the endangered animal of, fleeing into caves. I can only keep after it in fits or I get trapped in the keeping after. That, and bliss. Your spinning but devoted I.N. II The word that’s missing in order to complete a thought may take half a lifetime to appear. —Lispector to Fernando Sabino, 1953 I’ve vanished from waiting for the word that will. The way my neighbor backs up his car so fast…

45 min.
ghost dance

“AND SO IT WAS ALL OVER,” THE GREAT visionary Black Elk says in his account of the Wounded Knee Massacre of 1890. “I did not know then how much was ended.”1 Wounded Knee, where the United States Seventh Cavalry killed 150 noncombatant Sioux men, women and children, was, of course, not the only massacre in the four-hundred-year history of the white-Indian wars. It was only one of the last in the legacy of violent conquest and attempted genocide, both physical and cultural, that haunts any real understanding of what it means to be an American. As historian Patricia Nelson Limerick writes, in an essay entitled “Haunted America,” it is the foundation that “our presence on this continent rests on.”2 Every inch of earth, after forty thousand years of occupation, is probably…

2 min.
new in poetry from penguin group (usa)

Carrie Fountain: INSTANT WINNER In this moving exploration of spirituality and the domestic from the prize-winning poet, wry, supple poems take the form of prayers and meditations chronicling the existential shifts brought on by parenthood, spiritual searching, and the experience of selfhood. Penguin Poets • 96 pp. • 978-0-14-312663-8 • $20.00 Michael Robbins: THE SECOND SEX The thirty-six new, strange, and exuberant poems presented here carry over the music, attitude, hilarity, and vulgarity of Robbins’s acclaimed first collection, Alien vs. Predator, while working in deeper autobiographical and political veins. Penguin Poets • 64 pp. • 978-0-14-312664-5 • $18.00 Terrance Hayes: HOW TO BE DRAWN This daring fifth collection from the National Book Award-winning author of Lighthead explores how we see and are seen, and how the self is drawn by and to the paradoxes of the mind,…