World Poetry, Inc

The American Poetry Review

The American Poetry Review July/August 2017

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.

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Country:
United States
Language:
English
Publisher:
World Poetry, Inc
Frequency:
Bimonthly
$4.50
$25
6 Issues

in this issue

6 min
five poems

Flight plan I like to think I have a wing inside myself, and if a wing, that I’ve swallowed Icarus whole, wax and all, in the moment before the sun treats him as an equal. There’s a poem about him I love about a painting about him I plan to stand before before I die, flapping my arms until the docent comes over in his sturdy shoes and holds a mirror so I can touch-up my lipstick before kissing the splash Icarus made in the ocean going home. I have all these plans to make plans and all these desires to be brave about the fall awaiting us all, but I never quite get there, like a man trying to leap out of his tracks in snow. When he lands, the first person to welcome him back to Earth looks so much like the person he tried to leave behind, that he leaps again, and…

6 min
dead end boogie

Yes yes We love We lie over under or beside one another plunged into each other or we are younger and tiptoe around outside the house in the dark and look at each other’s doors without daring to ring the bell or we take a walk in the park in the twilight and are afraid to get started and want so much to kiss and be kissed or we are an old couple that can no longer drill a hole into each other yes yes we love and the King of Terrors laughs behind us the King of Terrors laughs and his eyes are jewels the King of Terrors laughs and his teeth are skeletons and we love and we hate we discover our husbands and wives with other’s husbands and wives our world collapses in ruin and we hate someone ruins us or takes our job someone gets…

12 min
stoking the light

Books Cinder: New and Selected Poems Susan Stewart Graywolf, 2017, 256 pages It ’s hard to believe this is Susan Stewart’s first retrospective collection. She has been a vital fixture of the American poetry scene—as a poet, critic, and translator—for nearly forty years. The handsomely produced Cinder presents work from her previous five volumes, in reverse chronological order; it also includes a generous portfolio of new poems. Reading it one suspects that her refusal to put out a selected volume may have been dictated by a wish to preserve the integrity of the individual collections, as well as the poems themselves, actually, all of which carry the mark of distinct care and focus in assemblage and poetics. After all, culling poems for the benefit of stocktaking—and separating the proverbial chaff of lesser work from…

1 min
from stansted to heathrow

We pass vast fields of brilliant yellow flowers, all the same height—safflowers to make oil to fry up cod for fish and chips? England still has hedgerows, I’m happy to report. “The English love hedgerows so much, they named their airport after it,” I tell Violet. “That’s Heathrow,” she replies. But is a heathrow a hedgerow? Looking out at the fields, a few lines of “Stairway to Heaven” enter my mind: “If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed, now; it’s just a passel of the May Queen.” I can’t stop thinking of it. England is a place where awful pop songs get lodged in your brain. No wonder 48% of the English wish they could leave, according to the Daily Mail. England is the only nation with stacks of free newspapers at its airports—and rightly so. Their journalists are the best in the world: vivacious, sarcastic, funny and cruel. Their only shortcoming is an obsession with…

1 min
ways to describe a death inside your own living body

If wavy glass feels old to you then sit down. I’m speaking from inside the lead curve, where black minerals burn to a shine like pissed-off soot suns. I was sure it was a boy. I thought I knew the sound of darkness, the slow leather collapse of a bat’s wing folding into itself, the swollen fucking of a cloud of them wrestling for space on the cave’s drapery— let’s call it what it is because that’s how death begins, by tricking your body into an arch, as if life will just tie a string to your spine and hang there, a patient pendulum bob, waiting for you to finish. No, inside the glass we see death clearly. First you feel limbs (which, people remind you, you only ever imagined), then vague flinting in the damp then the suck of wet bread…

6 min
five poems

Political Poem it’s true I’ve worn your nightgown in fact I am wearing your nightgown lonely as I am these days it is almost like wearing you which I used to do so often and with such zeal as I recall my parents would hot glue my dolls’ clothes to my dolls so full I was even then of curiosity and yes lust did you have something like this urgent and wet as a lung? I never wanted you more than when we wept into each other’s T-shirts through an entire rodeo the gloom cancering up from the bulls to the clowns to us who would even want to inherit this kingdom now the lessness of it the acres of herbicide better we stick to our little apartments fasting until we can bear to eat before you left you said miserable boy you call…