Cultuur & Literatuur
The American Poetry Review

The American Poetry Review November/December 2016

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
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6 Edities

in deze editie

4 min.
clint smith

six poems Something You Should Know is that as a kid, I once worked at a pet store. I cleaned the cages of small animals like turtles, hamsters, rabbits, and hermit crabs. I watched the hermit crab continue to grow, molt, shed its skin and scurry across the bottom of the aquarium to find a new shell. Which left me afraid for the small creature, to run around all exposed that way, to have to live its entire life requiring something else to feel safe. Perhaps that is when I became afraid of needing anything beyond myself. Perhaps that is why, even now, I can want so desperately to show you all of my skin, but am more afraid of meeting you, exposed, in open water. The Boy and His Ball The boy is bending down…

5 min.
arielle greenberg

two poems Pastoral: Divining Rod It’s the balsamic moon, mid-April, the near-dark phase between Seed and Hare, insemination season, and the thirteen women are meeting again in the house perched in the still-bare trees by the salt marsh. How do I say to these kind, careful, hurting women that what I want is horsepower, which here in the country often refers to a small farm where actual horses drag actual logs in from the woodlot, but what I mean is your horsepower, you hung like a horse and engaged in the biology of your power? How to say that when you say I want to fuck you till you see stars and then keep pounding I am engaged in the biology of my power, and am taking it as the sweetest endearment possible?…

4 min.
david rivard

two poems Standoff I like reality. I like Rome especially, its diesel fuel and roasted coffee beans intact & on the feast day of San Lorenzo di Perugia or thereabouts a plate of spinach & sliced sausage to eat (the whole concoction dished up on torta al testo, a sort of primeval bread); I like to see a manhole struck by a snowplow too— maybe because it’s an accident, and some of what happens by accident occasionally (or more than occasionally) ought to be thought a gift?—the sparks kicked out by the plow blade blowing like thin solar flares across a dark, snowy street; and the princessas—it’s good to have them singing on the radio while I drive across town—all of those merrymaking, anorectic young women close at hand then, those newsworthy extroverts with…

17 min.
david rivard

Cambridge, Massachusetts, October 17–18, 2015 david roderick Let’s start by talking about the title poem in Standoff, mostly because the way it opens (“I like reality. I like Rome / especially, its diesel fuel / and roasted coffee beans / intact & on the feast day / of San Lorenzo di Perugia . . .”) sounds like vintage Rivard to me. And yet, when you’ve spoken of the poem, you sound wary or uncertain, as if it developed in an unusual way. david rivard The original draft of the poem was about twenty pages long, and I wrote all of it at Civitella Ranieri, the arts foundation in Umbria where I had a residency in 2012. I had never been to an arts colony. Anywhere. When I told Charlie Simic what I…

1 min.
chasity hale

two poems The Bubbling Pool in Jost Van Dyke We bathe in streetlights with our legs sunken knee deep in water like black treacle. From the dock through palm trees and sea grapes, we navigate on this island of low-country folklore. The sky like a rum aged in oak casks becomes dark in color. The hiking trails made by grizzly, taper tailed mongoose, lead us to the bubbly pool. At first blush, the lagoon is frothing and lukewarm. The distant yet strong scent of blackened flying fish subdues the ever lingering smell of foretime. We tell the youngest of the group, “watch out for sea urchins.” He has yet to know of the venom within their thick spines that stick out like the buds of a flowering plant. He can only heed what he discerns. The water is joined…

1 min.
sally ball

First Elegy The night my grief passed through me most completely, I was making dinner. I had lit the grill and reached as ever to give a quick metallic scrub and then I realized you were ash. It was the day however many days after your death they’d said cremation would take place, which hadn’t struck me until the puff of these ashes in their shining chamber flung at me the knowledge of your body gone, incinerated, no mistake, no hope— me a zero stuffed with breath. A swarm of tears, and cries like none that I had ever made hauled through me, hauled my ‘soul’ my presence of mind my poise my being-anyone-at-all into a place of menace, the place where losing you meant losing everything about the way I see, make sense. So…