World Poetry, Inc

The American Poetry Review

The American Poetry Review September/October 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

1 min
happiness production line

—thank you, John Ashbery We packed Good Times into your satchel, and also notes on the auroch, that medieval cow. Don’t be so crestfallen, the bandoneon will be delivered after lunch, in fracture mode. We can speak tango, collage bricks and pavers, or stuff like that. Whatever. There are always dangers in translation, but gde je vetsi will get you something, in which country I forget. No, of course we don’t make up all our ideas, we’re just following the latest fads, Susie Q. Or plucking items off the conveyor belts in our heads; like Xian Mingles, God disposes. Goodbye, Cruel World—if you won’t sit under the apple tree with me, even in the breezeway built to your specifications—thank you by the way— along whose sides we planted hedges sparkling with dew. MARY CROW has published three chapbooks of poetry and three full-length books, plus five volumes…

1 min
tyree daye

The American Poetry Review is happy to announce that Tyree Daye has been awarded the 2017 APR/ Honickman First Book Prize for his manuscript River Hymns, chosen by this year’s guest judge, Gabrielle Calvo coressi. The book will be published in September 2017 and will be distributed by Copper Canyon Press through Consortium. TYREE DAYE is from Youngsville, North Carolina. His poems have been published in Prairie Schooner, Nashville Review, Four Way Review and Ploughshares. He was awarded the Amy Clampitt Residency for 2018 and The Glenna Luschei Prairie Schooner Award in the Fall 2015 issue. He is a Cave Canem fellow.…

1 min
what the body knows

Until I was five I could only fall asleep holding my mother’s earlobe. A single crocus can melt a snow bank. On my desk I keep the jawbone of a deer. When I rub its three bleached teeth, it tells me secrets. How many hes and shes must one wade through to find a you? Funerals hum when they begin with a honeymoon story. Every portmanteau should house a stash of love letters jealously guarded but never re-read. Once on a high school tennis trip one of the Zabriskie sisters fell asleep on my shoulder. After she woke, I apologized for days, never mentioning the wet spot she left on my shirt. In the yearbook I can find her quick as saliva. I need a new pillow, my niece announced,…

3 min
two poems

Inmate The kind of awake that feels like exhaustion. Sadness untended by tears. The way the car engine doesn’t want to turn over, so I’m always afraid I don’t get to leave. She said, “yeah I fucked her but I always pull out.” Said, “I go to Dreams with a suitcase.” Wondered, “Has a side jawn ever opened you up?” So I was always quoting her. It’s the concrete weight of the place, the overwhelming absurd guilt of it, the hyper resilient laughter and love within it, that demands more layers of meaning than we’re taught to. Like how I pretend I’m alone when I don’t want to be alone. How the days are shorter now, and one good night doesn’t promise another. She reasoned, “Trust ourselves? That’s how we got here.” Or how, every time I drive away, I see the business sign offering Confined Space Rescue and wonder how many people…

1 min
translating my dad’s love poems

after Yusef Komunyakaa It must have been ’98, my mom leaving for work, the first night she doesn’t kiss my dad goodbye. He closes the door softly, walks slowly to his office and takes a hammer to the keyboard of his computer as though desperately trying to build something, until the letters fly through the air struggling to form the words he cannot. I watch from my childish quiet, unnoticed, unsure of how much time passes before he labors over the scattered keys, scooping them up with small hesitation like a man collecting seashells, and striving to pop them back into place, to remember where each one belongs. I am so much like my father, and so I too fear love, how I will inevitably fail it, mishandle it, let it fall from my hands, too fragile to survive intact. Years later, I think of him hunched over that keyboard, the same one he used to write the poems I’m now translating,…

3 min
five poems

Son of a Nun There’s the front door Through which she never came, and the winter Coat she wore while pregnant with me. And here’s the mourning I fail To euphemize. My day-old head clipped From a polaroid and taped inside a locket. I’ve got no pet names or birthday cards Or knotted strands from a blond afro In a black hairbrush. But this Much is true: Had we ever met, I’d have kept even her bellybutton Lint and ragged toenail clippings. I have but her habits: ultra-tidiness, Afternoon gin and tonics, midlife Panic attacks. I keep meaning to frame A photo of myself, eyes closed, Simply to see what she might have Looked like in the coffin. But they say there’s no need. If I want to bring her back, I just have to Put two fingers to my wrist And face the heartbeats. I prefer Hands at my throat, scratching carefully And…