World Poetry, Inc

The American Poetry Review

The American Poetry Review November - December 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.

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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
four poems

Joseph’s Work In the great scheme of things, my job— Overseeing the produce at Sunshine Market, Maintaining quality in the bins—can’t be listed Among the jobs of first importance, I realize, but it does require some talent, The same displayed on a larger scale By the Joseph my parents were thinking of In naming me, the favorite son of Jacob, Who ended up as the overseer Of all the Egyptian granaries. It’s true my work doesn’t use all my gifts, But neither did Joseph’s work use all of his. His gift for interpreting dreams, for instance, Though it won him his place, wasn’t required Any time afterwards. If he used it then, He used it at home, on weekends, the place and time I use for playing my trumpet or teaching friends Stretches for easing aches in their backs and knees. And his work didn’t ask him to use…

4 min
three poems and an interview

Tree of Obscurity A Fagus sylvatica on Waterway has formed a burl to seal off a wound. Like someone with a scar on their lip, like Joaquin, the actor, it’s part of the appeal. I pass the tree often, at the end of a head-jammed-up-in-a-shitstorm but sluggish run and hunker under the canopy to breathe. Compelled in any case to check on this tree since the property is untended. I looked up the cost of an Air Spade™, probably not what it needs (supersonic air to break up compaction). I know enough to see, needs are not being met, that were they met, it would mean human intervention. A compulsion, nothing on the level of my sisterin- law scrambling over a security fence in her bespoke heels to feed feral cats, a near pathological bond with the entire critter kingdom, cats…

6 min
two poems

Written April 27, 2015 in the Blank Pages at the Back of Bolaño’s A Little Lumpen Novelita And with Baltimore going up, on a Monday, if I asked will it fly high like a bird up in the sky and you heard Billy Preston’s voice as much as any sparrow in your eye it’d be because simile is simply cinema, the screen upon which we watch the language we use projected, a screen we stand behind and from around the back of which we can never find our way in front, I mean without each other, I mean, as individuals, like owners of property, like amputators of senses, like those who think they’re protected by the forces that assault others, I mean, each other, by which I mean not each other but all of us, a screen we stand before and from around the front of which we can never find our…

1 min
pb&j

As a foreigner my identity was against it by default But later as a mother I was to make sandwiches I turned away from my American child to hide a grimace as the knife slid on the oily surface extracting a hanging grub the mustard of dusty, old midcentury velvet couches I nagged my husband for separate utensils fear of contamination Then, one day I was stranded starving under a sleeping child The sandwich still under his chubby fingers bitten only once about to fall I moved the free arm closed my eyes as survivors on TV brought it to my lips and bit it Sweet swirls swimming in fat Thick, creamy Fat fromage de meaux Unpasteurized Beautiful body of butter The jelly sandwiches of the past were the ones meant only for children dry and bodiless the superficial joy of chips from a vending machine As I prepared to bite again More than in that citizenship swearing ceremony earlier that month I felt As an American ANANDA LIMA has an MA in Linguistics from UCLA and has taught language and linguistics at UCLA and Montclair State University. She…

2 min
two poems

Staggering Skywards A road without beginning, Branches of dirt, plumes of mist A temple squats pink against the sky A priest in a T shirt rubs his eyes Anoints the car, then my forehead— I have a mark from the goddess of the mountains It will not wash off easily. A sedan speeds by, in the window a sign DANGER, then scrawled under it BEAUTY NOT MAKE LOVE. I think I understand this Imperfectly. A man with a herd of young cows comes close The cows are reddish colored, burnished. By the herd, a dressing table Tossed over the rock’s edge Flimsy wood and metal, Daubed with paint. I am entering my own life. What is inside, what is outside None of that is clear any more. I teeter at the edge of the clouds. An orange wire dangles at the cliff’s edge VSNL broadband Another’s stretched taut for birds to hop Magpies, humming birds Even the…

4 min
five poems

Eden One day, the boy who lived next door began to eat the flowers in his mother’s garden. He started with the herbs she grew along the borders: pungent sage and fragrant thyme, medicinal oregano. Before too long, sensing he was onto something, he turned to tasting roses, irises, and then, as if he doubted he would find true love, the petals of the daisies, one by one. By August it got dangerous: he ate a foxglove plant, which made his heart skip beats. They rushed him to the hospital while we prayed hungrily for God’s forgiveness, not recognizing what he really craved was to be noticed, and not be cast out of our delicious earthly paradise. The Love Boat My niece and I assemble it; it takes all afternoon, so many tiny pieces spread across the kitchen table, shiny as a princess’s best gems. My niece is six and lives across…