Gellu Naum's Apolodor, and a translation.

Like many avant-garde writers during the Romanian communist regimes, Gellu Naum wrote and published a few books for children, including The Books of Apolodor.

This version was illustrated by Dan Stanciu, a Bucharest artist who often hung out with Gigi Rasovszky as “Polipul”. I love the cover art much I had to share it, to keepsake it.

On another random note, Jacques Herold, a Romanian surrealist artist who had fled to Paris and shared circles with Victor Brauner, went on to illustrate almost 20 poetry books written by Naum.

But here’s a translation of a poem by Naum…he has been on my translating table these days.

Softness with Sheers: Shelley Wong's "As She Appears"

Shelley Wong. As She Appears. YesYes Books, May 10, 2022
Cover & Interior Design: Alban Fischer
81 pages, ISBN 978-1-936919-5
Winner of the 2019 Pamet River Prize

*

Anne Carson once wrote that “eros is a noun which acts everywhere like a verb”. . . There is a stickiness to eros, and it is the stickiness that made Jean Paul Sartre cringe in Being and Nothingness. For Sartre, "viscosity" is a repellent "state halfway between solid and liquid… unstable but it does not flow," electing to cling like "a leech" which attacks "the boundary between myself and I."

The viscous is sticky, unlike water which allows Sartre to stay “solid” when swimming in it.

"To touch stickiness is to risk diluting myself into viscosity," Sartre writes, he then compares to "a possessive dog or mistress." Honey must have been horrifying to Sartre.

I thought of this viscosity, this sweetness, when reading Shelley Wong’s first poetry collection, As She Appears.

I marveled at how Wong creates an erotic palette of soft colors and vowels which feels viscous without being possessive. As a queer Chinese-American poet, she palpates the stickiness of hybridity and personhood while queering the gaze, and playing with the lens to highlight how the self is seen— how being seen over-determines being, itself. Or her-self.

Wong’s voice carefully unpacks the silences of love; she aims "to tell all the quiet sisters" to whom this poetry collection is inscribed. In so doing, Wong "talks" about the weather — each of the book's four numerated sections ends with a "forecast" poem which subverts the reading of future weather by bringing climate to bear on expectation . . . And so we move with the poet through the seasons of a relationship, but also a life.

Only one of the sections has its own epigraph,namely, the fourth section, the last one before the Coda. This epigraph from Korean poet and filmmaker Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's Dictee also titles the book:

One seems to be able to see her. One imagines her already.

Looking at Each Other Across Seasons

Muriel Rukeyser’s poem, “Looking At Each Other,” is set as an overaching epigraph for the entire book. “Yes were were looking at each other,” Rukeyeser confirms in this poem which builds from a place of confirmations and affirmations, a record and inventory of particular Yes's.

Yes, our bodies entire saw each other
Yes, it was beginning in each
Yes, it threw waves across our lives
Yes, the pulses were becoming very strong
Yes, the beating became very delicate
Yes, the calling the arousal
Yes, the arriving the coming
Yes, there it was for both entire
Yes, we were looking at each other

Summer, the season of warm nights and long-limbed light, is the first section. "The Summer Forecast" opens with a question about display:

Is it too late to go off-
the-shoulder?

Enjambment plays with fashion as an interpretive lens for subtle emotional display. There is a lover who takes photographs, and the speaker’s relationship to posing mingles with the apprehension of being defined by the lover’s lens. Flowers are everything in Wong’s book—the speaker's relationship to the flowers is a means of emotional expression, or forecast. I sensed this in the precision of her attention to the peonies, in a series of brisk couplets which close with an image, an act:

as I approached
softness with sheers.

The centrality of looking is also emphasized by the multiple ekphrastic poems. "Private Collection" uses the act of viewing art as a sort of erotic ekphrasis, and it is the quietness of the speaker which is conveyed in both aural and physical ways:

We wore quiet glasses, our hair in low ponytail
like George Washington.

The lover takes photos of the speaker looking away, and one senses a relationship morphing into a film reel. But there is also humor, a wry smile which exists as subtext, or as a correlate of the silence. You can see me without seeing me, Wong’s speaker suggests.

Topography and terrain also invoke silence, as in "Department of the Interior," written from Fire Island, where the speaker returns "in the silence that follows / a separation." Here, the barrier island feels like a loose metaphor for time's relationship to gravity and tides and the human body.

I love how the body is asserted in the fluidity of improvised language, as Wong reveals “For the Living in the New World”:

I may be happiest

improvising the language a body can make
on a dance floor. We are just learning

how female birds sing in the tropics.
Spring insists we can build the world

around us again. How has love brought you
here? My head is heavy from the crown.

Again, some part of amatanormative conventions are challenged by both the ornaments (i.e. the crown) and the seasons, or the expectations built into them by our relationship to seasons past. Spring brings green and renewal — or does it bring fire? How much of what we know can be relied upon to understand the future?

As a fourth-generation Chinese-American, Wong writes from a longing to know, or be known by, her homeland. This feels different from seeking to reclaim an identity —- perhaps it aims closer to seeking a living connection.

"To Yellow" is about race, and the direct address to the word emerges as a soft, gleeful rejection of being identified:

Dear yellow, you
have never covered my body.
I leave your light in the dark.

Embracing the relationship between light and what it touches, the poet gives yellow a particular power, and leaves the reader with a small epiphany:

how quiet
is strong & often beautiful.

Wong engages her heritage by moving around it, adding layers, as in "All Beyonce's and Lucy Lius" where it is tendered as a sort of social currency, or a set of instructions one can know without being known by:

I can't tell Mandarin

from Cantonese
drink hot water

"Refrain" bids adieu to "romantic sacrifice" when the speaker declares "I choose myself." Here, the self is posed against the duties of romantic love, where vows resemble "a closed hand," and flourishing occurs outside the promise, on the outskirts of the hot seasons.

Source: YesYes Books website

"I paint myself because I am alive," Frida Kahlo wrote in her diary. "I am the subject I know best."

Prior to this book, Wong published a chapbook on Frida Kahlo (Rare Birds, Diode Editions, 2017), and there are several Frida-facing poems in this collection.

In "Invitation with Dirty Hands," Frida Kahlo is the poem’s speaker who invites the "happy skeleton" to dance with her. Flowers, again, consecrate the space of heritage, or inheritance, as marigolds attach themselves to her "bloodline. Their soft throats crowd closer."

The epistolary "Dear Frida" begins by crediting Kahlo with the author's fascination with "flower names." Frida is addressed outside the shadow of her famous lover, Diego Rivera (Wong's decision to leave his name out of text seems significant), whose machismo the poet invokes:

He approves of your dresses
when your skirts unfurl

into a temple.

And there is "his first against" Kahlo's "locked door". The speaker references her own lover, and the quietude, the "desperate wanderings" her lover undertook; one senses a parallel between Kahlo and the speaker in the "quiet interior."

The "Epithalamium" written for Kahlo again gestures towards her marriage to Rivera, as well as Kahlo's bisexuality. But Wong subverts the epithalamium form by arming the betrothed rather than celebrating the wedding. It begins:

Lady, keep the tequila
by your lamp for when
you need a knife.

The instructions on how to make birds from azul paint to "wash away / the memory of his sweat, / the drowning taste" reinterprets Kahlo's art in light of her traumatic relationship with Rivera. Like Kahlo, Wong speaks in colors, borrows hues, builds a world from observation and affinity. The speaker admits: 

I, too, worshipped beauty,
parading in my pastels.
I fought & I loved the silences.

The pastel peacock is remarkable, memorable counterpoint to the brilliantly-feathered male peacock with his palette of turquoise and deep greens and blues and golds while the peahens sit peacefully in their quiet creams and soft browns. 

The poem "Albino" opens as a metaphor and then alters it at the end—the speaker is not quiet a pea-hen but rather a modified, pastel peacock. 

“Serene Chinese hibiscus”": Wong’s playful representations

Towards the end of the book, the poems recreate the dislocation of pandemic time, or the way in which it alters the seasons.

The final forecast poem beckons spring, naming the flowers as "my queens of color," creating a relationship between the flora and the flesh:

Sandal
ready. A pointed foot.

Again, Wong emphasizes listening, and how words recreate or misanticipate us.

There is a Coda, a single poem titled "Pandemic Spring" where "color becomes a feeling," and blooms stand in for emotions: : the "shocked orange poppies" and "serene Chinese hibiscus." The coda seems to defy all prior forecasts; the speaker calls herself "a pastel queen" whose time is now measured by listening, measured and made and marked by the hum of memories in amid cherry trees. Italics designate the quotations which refer to the speaker without quite seeing her:

Along the secret lake, I linger under a cherry tree in full blossom,
as is my ancestral right, something my Ohio
friend once said to me about hunting. When the petals fall like
snow, I think all my karaoke dreams.

I love these echos, and Wong’s use of italics to create an interior dialogue which brings the voices of others into the mind of the poet, which is also the room of the poem. 

Perhaps an entire book, or a year of seasons, throbs in the final lines of this poem, in the queer Chinese-American who has dressed herself in pastel pink to look back, to hug the redwood tree of her California home, and to speak plainly:

Dear ancestor: I am always rapidly departing, forgive me. To live, I want to be known &
loved, the two together, inseparable.

A beautiful book — sticky as the fondest hell, sweet as warm honey drizzled over yogurt, witty as quietude, and certain to have terrified poor old Sartre. What could be more delicious?

Why we write: A collage of words from others.

Because we have always written.

Because it’s the third thing, the god in the image, the ghost in the room, the thrall.

And because….. I have all these quotes written down in my notebooks… to share.

*

Seymour Krim: “I think all writing comes out of some sense of injustice: Why wasn’t I born beautiful? Why can’t I dance well? I think the inability to bear your situation as it’s been dealt to you has a very definite effect on your becoming a writer. It becomes changed and polished and you no longer have that primary feeling of changing your fate through your work—perhaps for some people, it always remains—but I think the impulse to rectify an injustice is at the bottom of the impulse to write.”

Dmitri Shostakovich: “We can’t allow the fear of death to creep up on us unexpectedly. We have to make the fear familiar, and one way is to write about it.”

Charles Simic: “The secret wish of poetry is to stop time….. Poems are other people’s snapshots in which we recognize ourselves.”

Claribel Alegria: “Traditionally in Central America the role of the poet is very important. In Central America, but especially in Nicaragua, practically everybody is a poet.”

Lucy Corin: “But what is more magic than access to death, what is more magic than something moving from a state of not being alive to being alive, or from being irrevocably lost to us to being present in another form, a form of sound and shadow, because of words, because of the sometimes inconceivable persistence of life? Every literary tradition I know is rooted in tales of the transformations between life and death. Words by their nature conjure; they make real. These are the stakes of magic in literature.”

Terry Tempest Williams: “When one woman doesn’t speak, other women get hurt.”

Adrienne Rich: “A poem can't free us from the struggle for existence, but it can uncover desires and appetites buried under the accumulating emergencies of our lives, the fabricated wants and needs we have had urged on us, have accepted as our own. It's not a philosophical or psychological blueprint; it's an instrument for embodied experience.”

Rita Dove: "I can’t imagine living without writing. Writing a poem for me means putting a name to a face, to memories. It means calling up emotions that I don’t quite have a handle on, and beginning to understand them a little better by writing about them. But it also means reaching out and connecting with someone else.”

Dumitriu Tsepeneag: "To have talent, I think, means to have the courage of pride and desperation, though also a little exhibitionism. The pride of thinking yourself a creator, Author; the desperation, because you know that no creation can be absolute, remaining, in fact, an apology, an exhibitionism, because you display the pride and desperation that accompany it." [trans. by Carla Baricz]

Julio Cortazar: “I was a very realistic child for the simple reason that the fantastic never seemed like the fantastic—but rather like one of many possibilities or existences that reality can present to us when, for some immediate or indirect reason, we manage to open ourselves up to the unexpected.”

Sven Bikerts: “When the words were coming, the future was naïvely projected as a continuation and fulfillment of the same. Working at full tilt one has a hard time imagining things ever not being thus. It is part of the nature of inspiration that it when it strikes us we feel it will be ongoing. In this one way, it’s like love. // Needless to say, writing is by now bound up with everything in my life, and there is no scenario, really, in which all other things are not affected by it. If I’m not writing, or at least pointed inwardly toward writing, I am suffering. Privately, I am listless and anxious by turns. Publicly I carry on as if I still had full title to my existence. But really, everything about how the day — the life — proceeds has to do with the presence or absence of the impulse.”

Natalie Goldberg: “The only place my walking into the room exists is in my saying it. I am keeping it alive. You turn around to look and me-walking-into-the-room is gone. You can’t see it.” ⁃ “There’s a dream dreaming us.”

Charles Simic: “Poetry is always the cat concert under the window of the room in which the official version of reality is being written.”

Donald Hall: “I write a lot of elegiac poetry. Poetry is trying to preserve place, and certainly elegiac poetry tries to keep the dead around. Poetry enacts our own losses so that we can share the notion that we all lose—and hold each other’s hands, as it were, in losing.”

Dorothy Allison: “The reality is that I am not to be trusted. Novelists are liars. That is a fact. We make up stories and try to tell them so well that people will fall under our spell and believe what we say absolutely. We work hard so that the reader will believe our fictional creations, believe all that stuff really happened--had to have happened. How, doing that, can we make so strong a claim to truth? More importantly, how, having written a novel that makes such terrible use of our own reality, can we claim a right to say what about our lives is now off-limits for public discussion?”

Graham Greene: “It is the storyteller's task to elicit sympathy and a measure of understanding for those who lie outside the boundaries of State approval.”

Gerald Stern: “The poet’s main job might be to preserve memory.”

Anne Lauterbach: “Poetry protects language from serving any master. One can it better from the periphery than the center.”

Coleman Barks: “What is the ache within an ache? What do we really want when we love a river or a grandchild? What is something that doesn’t ever get solved in being human?”

George Saunders: “A short story works to remind us that if we are not sometimes baffled and amazed and undone by the world around us, rendered speechless and stunned, perhaps we are not paying close enough attention.”

Jane Hirschfield: “I grow lonely for poems, the way you would grow lonely for an absent lover. And then they return. Longing is the ladder we meet on.”

Grace Paley: “But during all those jobs, once I was married and after I had children, most of the day I was a housewife. That is the poorest paying job a woman can hold. But most women feel gypped by life if they don’t get a chance at it. And during all those jobs and all the time I was a housewife, I was a writer. The whole meaning of my life, which was jammed until midnight with fifteen different jobs and places, was writing. It took me a long time to know that, but I know it now.”

Carolyn Forche: “One of the things that I believe happens when poets bear witness to historical events is that everyone they tell becomes a witness too, everyone they tell also becomes responsible for what they have heard and what they now know.”

Claribel Alegria: “Where there is so much horror around you, I think you have to look at it. You have to feel it and suffer it with others and make that suffering yours.”

Garrett Kaoru Hongo: “I think poetry is about our most familiar need which we deny in order to lead more practical lives, but ultimately these lives are impractical because they do not have such presences in them. I think poetry can bring such presences back…”

Anne Carson: “In letters as in love, to imagine is to address oneself to what is not. To write words I put a symbol in place of an absent sound.”

Isabelle Allende: "I need to tell a story. It’s an obsession. Each story is a seed inside of me that starts to grow and grow, like a tumor, and I have to deal with it sooner or later. Why a particular story? I don’t know when I begin. That I learn much later. Over the years I’ve discovered that all the stories I’ve told, all the stories I will ever tell, are connected to me in some way. If I’m talking about a woman in Victorian times who leaves the safety of her home and comes to the Gold Rush in California, I’m really talking about feminism, about liberation, about the process I’ve gone through in my own life, escaping from a Chilean, Catholic, patriarchal, conservative, Victorian family and going out into the world."

Ray Bradbury: “You must write every single day of your life…You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads…May you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”

Norman Manea: "What I do know, is that I refused to compromise with the system and I was obsessed with preventing my work from being manipulated for their propaganda. Even stories about the Holocaust could have been promoted as anti-fascist stories, which they were in a way, but I didn’t want them to be taken only as such. I remember I had a reading in Berlin in the ‘80s and a man in the audience, asked me: ‘Sir, I read your book, I read the stories, you didn’t say who the oppressors were nor who are the people who are suffering.’ And I said, ‘No, I didn’t.’ It was important to me that a Vietnamese reader reading a story about a young boy who is in a camp, can recognize himself, without me saying: the boy is a Jew, the oppressor is a Romanian, or a Nazi, and so on. I wanted to have a more universal approach."

Colette: "To write, to be able to write, what does it mean? It means spending long hours dreaming before a white page, scribbling unconsciously, letting your pen play around a blot of ink and nibble at a half-formed word, scratching it, making it bristle with darts, and adorning it with antennae and paws until it loses all resemblance to a legible word and turns into a fantastic insect or a fluttering creature half butterfly, half fairy."

Susan Sontag: "You have to be obsessed… [Being a writer] is not like something you want to be — it’s rather something you couldn’t help but be. But you have to be obsessed. Otherwise, of course, it’s perfectly okay to write, in the way that it’s perfectly okay to paint or play a musical instrument — and why shouldn’t people do that? I deplore the fact that only writers can write, as it were? Why can’t people have that as an art activity? … But to actually want to make your life being a writer, it’s an auto-slavery … you are both the slave and the task-master. It’s a very driven thing."

William Faulkner: “An artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why. He is completely amoral in that he will rob, borrow, beg, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done.”

Andrei Codrescu: “It is a sad fact that all flesh must die, but there is no reason why one's story, as well as one's soul, should be slighted after the passage. The attraction artists feel for our cemeteries is only partly aesthetic; much of it is gossip, a continual whisper intended for the delighted ear. Marble without a story is just marble. A true monument leans over and murmurs in your ear."

Ray Bradbury: (piping back in with a little advice on writing from lists) "Three things are in your head: First, everything you have experienced from the day of your birth until right now. Every single second, every single hour, every single day. Then, how you reacted to those events in the minute of their happening, whether they were disastrous or joyful. Those are two things you have in your mind to give you material. Then, separate from the living experiences are all the art experiences you’ve had, the things you’ve learned from other writers, artists, poets, film directors, and composers. So all of this is in your mind as a fabulous mulch and you have to bring it out. How do you do that? I did it by making lists of nouns and then asking, What does each noun mean? You can go and make up your own list right now and it would be different than mine. The night. The crickets. The train whistle. The basement. The attic. The tennis shoes. The fireworks. All these things are very personal. Then, when you get the list down, you begin to word-associate around it. You ask, Why did I put this word down? What does it mean to me? Why did I put this noun down and not some other word? Do this and you’re on your way to being a good writer. You can’t write for other people. You can’t write for the left or the right, this religion or that religion, or this belief or that belief. You have to write the way you see things. I tell people, Make a list of ten things you hate and tear them down in a short story or poem. Make a list of ten things you love and celebrate them. When I wrote Fahrenheit 451 I hated book burners and I loved libraries. So there you are."

Petre Barbu: "Since we live here as emigrants...."

Richard Siken's "Why" (and a few poems I'm obsessing over).

Richard Siken's poem, "Why," is the prompt that won't go away. And because it infuses my reading of poems—and speaks to what we find as readers in addition to what we do as poets—I decided to reconstruct the entire poem, in order, as a frame for speaking about other poets and poems I’ve enjoyed this year. The words from the poem are direct quotations. Don’t ask me why any of this matters. It is what it is—or what it does.

Because poetry is the language of the imagination and you need a larger imagination.

You need an imagination with enough space to imagine fucking the ocean inside Diamond Forde’s “I Can’t Write About the Ocean Without It Being About Slavery”, and then spend an hour lost in marvel, eating “Moon Pie, or a Fat Ode to Pussy and Marshmallows,” numbering euphemisms.

Because you need more than a gun and a jug of water.

You need to taste the sky in Mahmoud Darwish's wilderness—the desert and the deserted—to find your voice in the desertification.  You need to be there, on the page, “Standing Before the Ruins of Al-Birweh” in Sinan Antoon’s translation.

I shut the door to my emotions to become my other
I don’t feel that I am a stone sighing
as it longs for a cloud
Thus I tread as if I am a tourist

And you need to read Darwish in all these translations, in all these brushstrokes and proximities.

Because you have explicable and inexplicable needs and the world is full of things and you want some of them and to get them you need to be able to say them and think them. 

But surely some of them return like echoes, and so writing the non-material needs— the immaterialities of the human spirit— can be the most difficult, the easiest to botch, which is what Etel Adnan does not do in Sea and Fog, where “love precedes us to the grave and follows us into it.”

Because undigested biography is boring.

And the roughage of real biography includes dreams, “The Sleep Stage” elucidated by Kim Addonizio wherein someone feeds pudding to temporality, itself.

Because what we call sincerity is an oversimplification.

And the line in Renee Gladman's Calamities is inseparable from the line in her art: "They entered blank space and made a problem for the page - what next, where to go – and they were lovely in themselves." Which may be to say: they were lovely in their ability to expose language down to " the live wire set loose," and then seeing the burned, "the map it made" by electrifying a particular space.

Somewhere in the object world, I'd decided I would talk about the drawings: I'd give them language so that I could say they weren't language exactly.

A map is a page with markings. For Gladman, drawing and writing both make lines to think their way into something, which is to become. The line deserves following. Sincerity may be structural.

Because sometimes desire in a person sounds like whining. 

Or like “The Mother’s Loathing of Balloons” by A. E. Stallings, where pronouns share vowels with disavowals, and desire is a flotation device that disappears between mother and child.

Because nostalgia is always creepy and it makes you seem helpless. 

But nostalgia is neither creepy nor helpless—it is daunting, dangerous, evocative, resplendent as Hua Xi’s ““Heaven””:

Loneliness is an imaginary thing,
but so is the entire country.
You try. There are ceilings
you hold up
like heavens.

Because you can evoke instead of recount.

And you can write from the evocation and thereby raise the dead inside a poem as Luisa Muradyan does with “Bruce Willis, in the Light”, where the evocation blurs with invocation, and something sacred emerges from this layering of pop culture and a grandmother’s out-raged spirit:

I was named for 
my grandmother, and I carry
her anger in this life and the next.

Because you can trace the path of the mind as well as the way the body drags through the mud.

And give us the alphabet needed to describe what is seen and what is done, the relationship between the mind and the landscape, as Natalie Diaz does in "Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation”, meeting the myths:

Pastor John’s son is the angel—everyone knows angels are white.
Quit bothering with angels, I say. They’re no good for Indians.
Remember what happened last time
some white god came floating across the ocean?

Because we’re savvy and media drenched and you can leave out the parts of the story we already know. 

By already know, one means we know nothing. Which is to say we know the form and shape by which others feign to know things, and these very forms, shapes, and vessels deserve their own bawdy invocation—they deserve to be revisioned as Alejandro Zambra does in “Multiple Choice.”

Because knowing where to put the commas is boring and subject-verb-object is boring but knowing how to break a line to push against a sentence, make a friction, spin against the way you drive, find the place to breath, is interesting.

Knowing how to bring the bend of a blue note into a line break is astonishing. The reader can't unhear it in Carolyn Oliver's "Listening to Ralph Vaughan Williams on a Tuesday Night."

Because what it does is more interesting than what it is about.

And what A. E. Stallings does in "Dyeing the Easter Eggs" is both iconoclastic and iconographic. Notice how it moves through colors; how it lands in "chrism"; how the contrasts depend on connection and cycles of resurrection and birth.

I am the children’s blonde American mother,
Who thinks that Easter eggs should be pastel—
But they have icon eyes, and they are Greek.

Because you have a rich inner life, or want one, and everyone looks good smoking a cigarette in a cage with a notebook and a faraway look. 

But no looks as good, as gruff, as amazing in its reversals, leaving so much to hinge on “the demotic—John Ashbery.

Because notebook.

May be a pilgrimage which resembles Anne Carson's space, somewhere between the ancients and the present, where ruins meet in us—or in Caron’s lyric essay, “The Anthropology of Water.”

How can you see your life unless you leave it? 
It is already late when you wake up inside a question. 
Pilgrims were people who got the right wish. 
I'm asking you to study the dark.

Because the page.

Is filled with sheets. And Patrycja Humienik finds in them a “Failed Essay on Repressed Sexuality.”

Because paper is cheap and no one really gets hurt.

W. H. Auden knew this when he wrote what Elizabeth Hardwick called “a throwaway libretto” for Benjamin Britten’s Paul Bunyan in 1940, shortly after his arrival to the United States. Auden never sought to reprint the text of this libretto: one instance. Paper is cheap. Maybe someone gets hurt. Maybe someone else finds freedom in it. Maybe someone’s sprained ankle is as dramatic as someone else’s broken back.

Because language existed before you.

And language is what must exist in order to cross us. As it appears in Ross Gay's "Alzheimer's," where the use of repetition both creates and de-creates a grandmother’s portrait, in her own words, a wind:

She stood in her doorway, asked my name
Again—something she would never
remember. A breeze
loosed some cherry blossoms, petals
flipping through her open arms
as she whispered, “Look what God has done,
look what God
has done.”

Ilya Kaminsky pointed out that the work of this poem is done in the titling: the Alzheimer’s, there, as both a character and a diagnosis—and one can’t help thinking about the before/after selves of chronic illness, the division between the body that didn’t know division except as a spectator, even though Gay gives us this portrait from two planes, the subject watching the speaker, the speaker drawing the subject. There is a haunting tenderness in the pitch of the refrain.

Because you rise up into language for only so many hours before falling back down into silence and you might as well do something useful while you’re here. 

You might lay the sonnet space for the last supper and invite everyone you can imagine to discover a shoreline, as Diane Seuss does in “[Here on this edge I have had many diminutive visions.]”

Because you’re susceptible, elastic, thin-skinned, moody.

And when you describe it, readers find themselves in the graft of your dislocation. You are "The Street You Cross" by Ryszard Krynicki. You are Poland, at some point, the line between traffic and complicity, the ethics no one mentions underneath.

Because landmark.

And Jason McCall needs to show us why even the landmark, itself, dies inside a particular body. He does this on so many levels which re-mark, de-mark, and rattle the ground the landmark needs to exist.  

Because amnesia.

Is an unremembered map, and we need to find our way back. The poem in drafts may be asking for a cartographer. And because poetry "has no obligation to the present that it forms its own time, or duration," to quote Dionne Brand’s The Blue Clerk.

Because you will not remember this moment with accuracy.

You will spend years trying to reconstruct your steps towards the bed with a dead baby, towards the ways you could have prevented what you could not prevent. The death of a baby has no meaning. There is no salve, no salvation, no syntax to hold it together. Beth Gordon will write these difficult poems anyway. 

Because language belongs to those who use it and some things develop sideways.

And so Shane McCrae enters the experience of being biracial in the US sideways, through the persona of Jim Limber, a mixed-raced man adopted by Jefferson and Viola Davis. McCrae offers backstory in titles, which refer to Limber as “the Adopted Mulatto Son of Jefferson Davis”— and he uses the word “mulatto” to indicate the characters will be bound by time, by the specificity of gaze which McCrae uses to develop tension across time.

Because the landlord will let himself in without notice. 

And Dean Young will bring drive-in, the piano, the girlfriend, the infected finger—all into “Lives of the Inventors”:

Because your supervisor will change your schedule without notice. 

The schedule, itself, may be a transcript of the end times. The funeral home is haunted by what we don’t want the morticians to say, as Luisa Muradyan does in "If You Were Wondering About the Couple Who Runs the Funeral Home", narrated from inside the mind of that couple, and how they cope with their work, or what work-life balance means in the context. Notice how she sets up the title perfectly, the couple runs the funeral home, rather than owns it, which lets us know that they are involved in the daily details. the long title keeps the poet from having to get bogged down in back story. The poem takes its cue or beat from an inventory, and the "beautiful pie charts" which the couple "makes up" to you "stay sane."  this is where the motion and imagery against – as the poet plays out what each color symbolizes:

Violet means these bodies 
just got here and haven't even taken their clothes off.

 And she says what each color means to the couple, who is both directly addressing the reader in an intimate you, accomplished in the final line's "your"-- also narrated as an "I" which stands for the couple. it's a feat of narrative power – and the poem which opens her book, American Radiance.

Because hot pants.

Maybe a failed sestina, may be a poem by Jane Huffman which undoes itself at the seams.

Because parataxis.

Because a myth can be a costume that lets Cavafy imagine himself into a space—and Leonard Cohen can pick up this space inside the hot pants of his own song decades later.

Because we need more than a clunky extrapolation.

Something like Marie Howe opening the archives of where we are now by organizing the archives we made of others. Something like discovering the need for a concordance which includes sparrows.

Because we are waiting for you to make sense of it for us. 

We are waiting to hear a composition by La Monte Young titled “Piano Piece for David Tudor #1”.

Because poetry can move the fulcrum of the mind just enough so that the world, this same world, becomes electrified and bewildering.

And Alice Notley knows this. She knows that the baby had to emerge from the owl's forehead in a poem about post-partum depression. To choose both is to refuse the very choice. I am grateful for every poem and every poet that teaches us to write us.

Because poetry is mysterious and criticism is not.

And, often, the form, itself, creates the questions it cannot answer, as in Oliver de la Paz’s extraordinary poem, "Autism Screening Questionnaire — Speech and Language Delay.”

Because craft can be taught but vision can’t, which is problematic, since you need both. 

I keep thinking of Sophia Stid’s poem, “Lifestyle Factors,” about gendered apologies, and how the poem locates itself within the body of one single, long stanza trying to figure itself out, using form to make physical the figuring, the accounting, the embodied ledger:

And now sorry is one more way to be wrong, to be hungry,
the secret stare I carried stolen & thrown right back
at me.

The lifestyle factor of having a body.

Because a consistent way of seeing is a philosophy. 

And gratitude is a lens, or angle which amplifies the small intersections of life in Ross Gay’s “Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude,” where poet gives the bird permission to come in, come in through the window “coochie-cooing my chin.”

Because when you mess with syntax, you’re messing with morality. 

So Kyle McCord can lean into the language and syntax of iconography—and the diptych and triptych of forms with the gorgeous couplets of “Triptych for Nighthawks”:

She slurred words
as she pointed to the print.

Only the corymbs flowering
my father’s canvas were absent.

Hot pants, because some things are worth repeating. 

And the form of repetition may be a poem titled “C.V". that subverts its inhumanity, as Iman Mersal does.

Hot pants, because image is the coal you shovel into the poem to fuel its little engines. 

And how to describe the poem that includes an aside to the image that it can’t quite abandon in another poem? I’m thinking of Patrick Donnelly’s intertext in “Jesus said Will someone”:

(Fleeing the deep grasses of the hunting ground,
Sokaku wrote, I heard the stag cry
—my friend is lost—)

Because there are more ways of getting there than just plot.

And Cedar Sigo believes we must keep touching them, keep inhabiting the ways of getting there. And I believe him.

Because the sound of a singular human voice.

The echo of tappings inside a prison wall. The poetry that emerges as a way of speaking with the dead, with the mother who dies as you sit in a Russian prison, trying to divine what it means to live. Vera Figner was a revolutionist, but poetry was the language she used to speak to her mother. The most precious return, somehow, "To My Mother," a missive.

Because they will not lay down in the streets and give you the keys to the city until you give them what they want and what you want to say and what they want to hear will overlap anyway so why not give it to them, love, love, it’s not like there’s only so much, it’s not like it’s gonna run out, so give it to them, give it to them.

All I can say is Tiana Clark’s “Broken Ode for the Epigraph”—all of it. Here’s how it begins:

O, intertextuality.
O, little foyer to my poem.
O, little , first and foremost.
My amuse-bouche, meaning mouth amuser,
a little glimpse of the meal to come. And sushi:
little epigraphs over rice. And if I could, I would add
an epigraph over everything. Wait . . . who says I can’t?

Because you can go ahead and make it happen, finish the thought, say the dream was real and the wall imaginary, raise the dead, heal the sick, cast out demons, and levitate. 

And if you do this, it might take an epistolary form that resembles Rachel Mennies’ The Naomi Letters, where the sent letter, “November 30, 2016,” sits next to the “[unsent draft]”, creating a dialogue between the speakable, the written, and the subtext of the conversation. To raise the dead is to remove the imaginary wall between said and unsaid. Or, to quote an “unsent”:

Before you, I wrote myself letters.

I typed them and saved them in a folder marked Vacation Photos.

Because readers are greedy and great literature is about its readers not its writers.

And sometimes I still can’t believe I get to live in a world that include Alison C. Rollins’ “Quartet for the End of Time”…even this first quartet—-astonishing.

Because participation.

Includes giving grief a shape through pacing, as does Chris Abani in his new collection (Restless Books), and this stanza:

I will fashion you from your relentless 
darkness.

The motion here is so different from walking. Closer to lifting blades of grass from a patch and trying to blow them, looking for that shrieking whistle – and yet not wedded to defining the satisfaction of the moment by it.

See "Terminus" and the role "incessant" plays. And then the haunted image of shadow behind the eyes. Abani chases his brother across continents. Use of the word blessed to flip at the end; use of pyromania to suggest it leads to self-immolation and maybe that is what it signifies. The effect of "desire" here as it intersects with grief. And how grief renders us homeless. Perhaps this is an argument for an expansive poetry based on grief and loss, how our place in the world no longer exists. But also: sparseness in pacing.

Because witness.

Sometimes looks at the children, or the ones who won’t live to witness the world we have made for them, as in this “For the Kids” by Langston Hughes.

Because history.

May return in "the smooth cup" passed by a brown hand in Hoa Nguyen's "I Didn't Know." A certain can offer a cup across time which feels like tomorrow.

Because, in spite of it all, it’s between you and the page.

To stare into the sky and refuse to write it. To break it down into morsels like Kay Ryan that are easier to carry in a pocket, and which feel like silences or vegetables. 

Because sometimes, in spite of it all, it’s just words on a page. Because sometimes, in spite of it all, it’s still in your head and not on a page and you have to do it all over again.

To watch a daughter in the mirror noticing where the light intersects with memory, as Carmen Bugan does in "She looks in the mirror." To look—and look again, seeing how she sees, how she is seen, how the seeing, itself, becomes a story about salience.

Because you want to be heard, or overheard, or you don’t and you need to invent a coded language to get the message underneath the radar. 

As when Ludwig Wittgenstein turned to his landlady as he lay dying, and said: "Tell them I've had a wonderful life."

Because you want to write it down and slide it under the door and run away or you want the words to outlast you or at least do their job while you are sleeping. 

You want your dead brother to read the letter which tries to make sense of his absence, and yet which cannot believe in this absence entirely, even as the poem is addressed to it. See Marie Howe’s “What the Living Do,” where the traditional, public-facing elegy is replaced by an epistolary form, and the intimacy of private conversation includes failures with Drano.

Because even when intent and urgency push past dexterity into blather and deceit you have still accomplished something.

As Noah Warren accomplishes something which sticks, something which rumbles, something resilient in "Operation Pedro Pan”, a portrait with sharp elbows, fascinating rhymes, revisionary repetitions:

and Rich the careful, the claims adjuster,
the trembler, then the trembler

Because sometimes the places you’d like to smooth over are the places where you have betrayed yourself and you should take a minute to really think about that. 

In the black hole, maybe even in a cemetery, 
humans, my armed friends, absorbed their own whispers --
all were filthy, thin, pathetic per Shakespeare, 
they numbered their bullets & days & dreams in overnight attacks.

Then the moon appeared without a helmet, coming forth from thorned darkness; 
but my friends failed to fall with their faces to the ground; 
instead they lit cigarettes, talked of liberty, the shooter's freedom, 
their backs leaning loosely against the black hole, the possible gravestone.

And I cannot stop thinking about the ways in which one betrays the self in translation, or in the assumption that translation is not both a funeral and a birth.

Because you don’t need to be brave but it helps to be unashamed. 

It helps to sit in Dorothea Lasky’s extraordinary “Lilac Field” and imagine ourselves.

To perform death is something only humans would do
No animal would sit there
With a blank look on its face
Just because the camera is there

Because we are all always moving forward in time, word by word, and you can trust us to follow you into the future.

You can trust us to notice the enjambments which sever the speaker from the words, the mischief of breaking a line after "you"—the committed, recursive hauntedness of Shane McCrae's "To Make a Wound."

Because we are going to spend the rest of our lives in the future. 

And no one can prove the future will not resemble “The House” by Warsan Shire.

Because black square, white square, goes the linoleum.

Gherasim Luca wrote “Inventor of Love” in 1945 and I will never get over any of it. Or poetry.

I carry with special elegance the suicidal head on my shoulders and I circulate an infamous mile from one place to another, poisoning the breaths of beings and if things over a range of several kilometers....... I look at myself in the mirror and I see my face full of eyes, mouth, ears, numbers. Under the moonlight, my body casts a shadow, a half-shadow, a pit, a quiet lake, and an onion.

*

Presses & journals associated with these poems: University of Nebraska Press; Wave Books; Bull City Press; Four Way Books; BOA Editions; Archipelago Books; Harvard Review; NYRB Imprints; Tin House; FSG Books; Restless Books, countless journals, I give up…

And why not end by making my mom happy and leaving a little note from Leonard Cohen—

Anna Kavan's machine head in fog.

Everyone had an opinion on Anna Kavan, the pen name taken by Helen Ferguson.

Jean Rhys, whose complicated relationship to alchohol is no secret, described her close friend in a 1970 essay titled “The Bazooka Girl”—borrowing the title' of Anna Kavan’s story as an emblem for the author’s entire life. She was a heroin addict, Rhys assures us:

She could not escape from the evil of hopelessness. It would arrive at any ordinary moment. Sitting with her in the Café Royal, I found her taking an extraordinary dislike to a waiter, who certainly was repellent physically but otherwise, to my eye, harmless. It was with astonishment that I was to find the episode transformed in Asylum Piece. I had not understood that her brief flight from the restaurant table was done to give herself a shot of heroin, after which she gained detachment from the oppressive hovering of the waiter, who, as related in the book, had indeed followed us from the bar upstairs to serve us in the restaurant below—which, for her, had become pursuit by one of the menacing devils threatening her security. The waiter was in some way connected with a hallucinatory figure awaiting her in the foyer.

She was paranoid, intoxicated, out of her mind, riven by madness, Rhys says, drumming her nails on the table.

*

Everything depends on the patrons, Anna Kavan tells us, at the beginning of her short fiction collection, Machines in the Head and Other Stories (NYRB Classics). Everything depends on powers external to herself, and life consists in pleasing the patrons, the advisers, the men, the women, the anonymous, indecipherable masks which pass for humans.

For Kavan’s narrators—and for the writer, herself—power depends on proximity to the powerful, and in relation to men. We see this reliance on men in Helen Ferguson’s life as well as that of Anais Non (a fan of Kavan’s). This is the psychologized 20th century femme who exists by virtue of her relation to the analyst, a father-figure, a man who knows her better than she knows herself.

Of course, there is “The Enemy.” Though nameless, the enemy controls everything—it is the enemy who determines what the speaker can do, say, or think. One could read structuralism into this, but I’m not sure Kavan was going that far. Her sense of helplessness is personal, despite its emphasis on depersonalization.

*

The story “Ice Storm” describes the narrator’s experience of an ice storm in the US, as she decides whether to stay or return to England, and the entire narrative is interrupted by various media headlines and quotes about the danger of the ice storm and the victims killed by it. The banality of the reportage combines with the pragmatic discussions of privilege and good fortune which the friends use to convince the narrator to stay in New York. But the narrator’s problem is loneliness—and her friends, a married couple, refuse to hear or see her.:

‘I don’t understand you,’ Gloria said. ‘If you really feel as badly as you say, how can you be so articulate about everything and write about everything the way you do?’

“Everything in the world” is “loaded with ice” for the protagonist. The morning reveals the world immobilized by freezing. She is “the only person out in the glacial world.”

Kavan uses the word loneliness again and again, as both description and diagnosis.

*

To quote from Jean Rhys’ portrait again:

She wrote in a mirror. It imprisoned her. Watching only herself, her men are wraiths, and nearly always treacherous—as perhaps shadows must be. Retreat from an intolerable world was to become more a necessity. When, ten years before she died, she retained sufficient of her excellent constructive energy to design herself a house, battling knowledgeably with architect and builders, she was to keep its Venetian blinds down all day, and her small walled garden was secret, a density of foliage such as her favourite Henri Rousseau might have painted, a dream leopard prowling under the lunar-green fronds. In the world of reality her social conduct was apt to become erratic, passing too swiftly from the most delicate perception of a guest’s mood to hurtling a roast fowl across the table at him, then retiring to her bazooka from an objective distance, and a wry joke would be cracked about it. The discipline that sustained writing was helpful—as, probably, a respect for the principles of creative work (surely it is manifest in these stories? helped to keep under control the lying that becomes a nuisance in confirmed drug addicts. That other self carried, too, a sense of guilt. There was also an unfaltering love and knowledge of the Bible.

Des Barry wrote a great read of this book (as published by Peter Owen Publishers) in the context of Kavan’s other work, and Barry compares her mode to that of artist Henry Darger.

I’m intrigued by the emphasis on mechanization, and on the machine—the administration of the mind as experienced by certain classes of women with mental illness— and the relationship to substance abuse. There is copious tragedy in believing that a man, whether analyst or caregiver, can save a woman. There is, of course, an absence of countervailing narratives that don’t rely on an empowerment feminism which leans in to the language. Who can forget that Margaret Thatcher spent a decade in speech therapy to make her voice sound more masculine, and therefore, reliable?

The Child Voice in Fiction: Strategies from James Schuyler.

Reading James Schulyer’s Alfred and Guinevere, which he wrote in 1952, one marvels at his deployment of the child voice. I sat down and studied the way Schulyer accomplishes this…and one easy word would be “intrusive imaginations,” for the kids are always bringing some wildly imagined thought into the room as an argument.

1. Dialogic structure that imitates the non-sequential talk of kids.

Since Schulyer doesn’t always use dialogue tags, there is a sense in which these dialogues between kids pick up their own momentum, or exist in a world seperate from the linear, explicative, attribute world of adults.

The speakers interrupt randomly, or throw in accusative forms, which allows the subject to be changed, or to open a fold in the backstory of speakers—a lot happens after one of the kids says “You’re just jealous…”, and explains why. Also achieved with “Oh yeah, then what about…?” Whataboutism is very effective at enriching the characterization and tone.

2. Inclusion of random facts as evidence in the dialogue—taking books as real, com-possible places.

There is a constant sense in which all is compossibly true. See page 54 for a sharp example of this taking the book as a place. The kids also reeanctment their readings in scenes from their created plays. Page 53 and 53 give examples.

This constant reference to fictional books gives us a sense of aspiration that is markedly different from that of the adults. Schulyer’s child voices describe the novel’s actions as their own “ambitions.” Real life is constantly interpreted to stories and books so that the indeterminate, or the helplessness of childhood, becomes a mental expansiveness in which anything can happen. Examples on pp. 46-48. Adages and folklore are included as evidence or explanation in the conversations between kids, no book is useless.

3. The intrusion of adult world as a strangeness, another country whose means and meanings need decoding.

This occurs repeatedly throughout the novel, and one sees it in Schulyer’s depiction of the charged, hostile silences between adults (as on p. 50), as well as the childrens’ attempts to make sense of these silences and words. What’s marvelous is overhearing how the kids attribute wild, romantic motivations to particular silences, absences, and patches of evasion in adult-land (see p. 86).

4. Detailed description of gendered socialization occurs through conversation among peers and allusions to media.

We see how girls learn what is expected of them as a particular performative aesthetic in the images cited, and the chit-chat between the young girls, and the vocalizations of adults. Guinevere’s horror at her own freckles is described in this way on pages 49-50.

The duty of aesthetic self-improvement infuses Guinevere’s friendships, and the “freedom” of the female gender in Schulyer seems to end with young adulthood (p. 100). Guinevere repeatedly mourns the way her desire to talk about feeligs or books with girlfriends gets snuffed out because the girls just want to to talk about “stuff”, and stuff-ness (p. 113).

5. Death presented a melodramatic moment of significance rather than harsh reality of non-existence.

There is a romance to the death scenes, as on p. 48. The children cope with trauma by inventing fantastic alternative scenarios which resemble a childhood epic constructed from various fictional heroes and heroines, as seen in the very beginning when Schulyer frames the book as part of this epic, pp. 4-5.

Death is surreal in the child-mind. This also shows up in the hyperbolic language about health that doesn’t take mortality seriously—Guinevere is always imagining she will die of something, and talking about this imagined death (p. 93).

6. Inclusion of random comments from adults that add strangeness and suspense to the adult world.

Page 31. These also include wacky religious or moral commentaries (page 20), or even the forebodingness of conflict between generations, as towards the end when the grandmother is so set in her ways, so dedicated to tradition, that it keeps her from flourishing, thriving, or surviving—but these ways, these traditions, aren’t completely devoid of truth. Where the adult would have a normative binary, the child mind allows both to co-exist in Schulyer.

7. Narrative as a form of power.

The difference between “true stories” and “lies” is the engine of this book, and that becomes clear on pp. 94-95, but the reader feels this already in the tension between adult-land and child-land as well as the competitive tall-tales between kids. Arthur and Guinevere aim to oneup each other in freaky, scary stories, and this is also an element in friendship with their peers (pp. 8-9).

Ultimately, Schulyer evokes the way adult narratives, and the stories adults tell, have power over the young. And kids fight back with their own stories, their own variants—by refusing to write what some might call a “trauma narrative” of child abuse with a plot structured around harm, elucidation, and redemption or therapy—-Schulyer sets us inside the child-mind the whole way through. I read this as an anti-adult book, in so many ways, a repudiation or reclamation of narrative power.

The kids tell stories, or create stories, to deal with the parts of life that can’t be processed or discussed, including their parents’ divorce. Stories don’t solve so much as ameliorate the helplessness, as in conversation on page 76.

“True stories aren’t as scary as made-up ones,” the child-speaker says.

8. Self-help discourse and self-improvement chat is gleaned and modified from adults.

This adds a sort of fantastic layer of meaning to the words “aptitude” and “ambition.” These words sound different when used by children—they feel flimsy, and their constructedness is revealed.

10. Repetition of adult phrases with slight changes in syntax that renders the cliches and platitudes absurd, humorous, silly.

As on page 41.

11. Physical gestures and body as text to be decoded—and performed.

pp. 67-68.

The kids control adults, or influence adults, by “acting the part” (p. 118)—and they are conscious of this. Which makes the extent of their acting other parts—from books, movies, media, etc.—seem less child-like and more integral to social life in late-capitalism.

The book essentially ends in the performance of a good-night prayer, as when Arthur says a prayer so fast it becomes a jumble of sounds, and Guinevere calls him names, and the mood descends into rhymes and a sort of light jibberish. A heavy frivolty.

Alice Fulton's sumptuous language.

"Love, if true, is tacit."

Alice Fulton, "Nugget and Dust"

*
I want to eat Alice Fulton's poems.

Sometimes I want to just eat them for the sumptuous repast and sensuousness they lay on the lips.

“Triptych for a Topological Heart” is so rich—it’s like a triple layer cake. Here’s how she ends the first layer…with a feast of vowels, a roll of o’s and a’s:

Without ardor
theory suffers. That’s why I’m stuck on you with wanton glue, per-
severing, styling something blobbish and macabre
into something pointed, neat. Love is a gift
that springs from an unlit spot. Resin and rue.
Even when I’m in the dark I’m in the dark with you.

*

Speaking of the dark—and the dark You—my notebooks hold the past for me against the fear of forgetting.

I know that in November 2014, I woke up twice with the same nightmare: P telling kids they could live with him in Virginia. I don't remember the scene, but the notebook says I asked him if it was true. Half asleep, he said that was a month ago. A pre-emptive strike when he wasn't sure how I felt.

I know: the clouds weigh too much today. Planes coming. The fear of terror, itself, is a terrorism and constant. The color of my eyes: cumulus.

I remember this was around the time I was doing a tremendous amount of free labor for a local old-blood Southerner who kept spreadsheets of who owned property and had money in Tuscaloosa. I don't remember thinking: Posture is a pose that suits the clothes. We select based on what we plan to feel, perform. Anything on Sunday might turn opera. Baroque, rococo, harmony requires this overwhelming aesthetic of fake. But if I look at my poems, I can see the baroque brought to the page suggesting a sort of gaudy conflict and turmoil, a deep, ongoing fear of being blacklisted by Southern elite.

“Without ardor, theory suffers.” Uncertainty—the enemy of ardor and theory—is the heart of poetry. The mouth is torn between these modes.

*

Fulton tells us the trees “don’t suffer openly,” and then pivots into details. And the way she uses neologisms, the way she sprinkles anachronisms over the top of a skyscraper, as in “Orientation in Hades”:

Heaven's that blotto yonder,
under digits of sun.
Light always has a point to make
in kingdom come, as in religious pictures
or Disney-animation. That paradise

looks like a salt mine
may come as a surprise.

The use of "blotto" to defamiliarize and then suddenly turn the wheel into what may be paradise is brilliant.

Free will comes down to meaning
we can eat anything with the hot sauce on it.

Our banter, in contrast, clanks
like cashboxes slamming closed.

And "the lamentation of the damned"—what does that sound like?

"The Body Opulent" trafficks in alliterations and sensual imagery. Fulton mixes religious words with mechanical ones, see "polychromed partitions", that raise the stakes and situate the body in a time of space of particular sanctity.

Particular sanctity. What does that mean? What is sacred now that wasn't sacred ten years ago? I think of privacy and how sacred it is in the States compared to Romania, where extended families still share houses after getting married. I think about how this relation to an abstraction changes our notions of right, wrong, intimacy.

Each cell got busy, singing
the dawnsong of its name.

What is a dawnsong? What is an aubade at the cellular level? What does it sound like if every cell has one? Fulton's jumbling of science and religious ritual is so evocative and strange and perfect here. 

Let's see how she ends the poem:

The freeway's glowing
dot and dash, a path of crumbs to follow home. 

And how she ends “Barely Composted”:

They say a trader can protect herself
with scales or acid.
They say it makes a nice death mask.
Tears won't change it.
Is that not great?
Why then do I scruple
to entirely embrace it?
It is too precious
for small transactions
and too heavy
for large ones.
It has nothing to prove.
Paper is its substitute.

I keep thinking there is no substutite which doesn’t become an icon.

Maybe Christianity is religion of the incarnation where God writes themselves with the world they created to unify it and bring it closer.

William T. Vollmann's "Goodbye".

And then re-read it in light of Vollmann’s end-notes. To note—Vollmann populates his end-notes with so many riches and keys to the text. I never skip them.

Robert Walser's Microscripts.

Robert Walser made use of the miniature form in his Microscripts — tiny embodiments of the miniscule.  The microscript form came to Walser as a result of a writer's cramp, which he qualified as: "a swoon, a cramp, a stupor - these are always both physical and mental."  His formally ornamental scripts turned tiny, microscopic, using pencil rather than pen, breaking with what translator Susan Bernofsky calls "the aesthetic ideal of the elegantly inscribed page." 

The Microscripts are written on found materials which make the texts look like collages, modernist mashups toeing the line between mechanical and personal production.

In English, the gloss is often taken as a form similar to the interlinear gloss of medieval text or marginal comments (as one sees in Coleridge's the Ancient Mariner). In the introduction to Robert Walser's Microscripts, translator Susan Bernofsky describes the satirical gloss as a well-known form in German literature, popularized by Karl Kraus. One thinks of Robert Musil—who loves them – and Walter Benjamin, who seems to be influenced by them.

W. G. Sebald called Walser "the clairvoyant of the small," and Walser took this smallness literally as his handwriting got smaller and smaller over the course of his career. He even squeezed out a final short novel, The Robber, on 24 sides of octavo-size paper in what scholars believed to be a secret, uncrackable code.

Nothing remains from Walser's final years in the institution, the asylum where he died and disappeared.

Here is one of Walser's microscripts as translated by Bernofsky.

Image source: The Improbable

Maira Kalman’s illustrations and notes are also marvelous, and they exist in dialogue with Walser’s biography. They are captions for glosses—-or glosses on images.

The gloss form is still fantastic, and it’s defined as a brief notation, especially a marginal one or an interlinear one, of the meaning of a word or wording in a text. It may be in the language of the text or in the reader's language if that is different. Here is the wikipedia:

A collection of glosses is a glossary. A collection of medieval legal glosses, made by glossators, is called an apparatus. The compilation of glosses into glossaries was the beginning of lexicography, and the glossaries so compiled were in fact the first dictionaries. In modern times a glossary, as opposed to a dictionary, is typically found in a text as an appendix of specialized terms that the typical reader may find unfamiliar. Also, satirical explanations of words and events are called glosses. 

Short lesson on craft from William Maxwell.

I will begin with a scowl.

William Maxwell's short story, "The Pilgrimage," grates my nerves. It revolves around an American couple in France trying to get to a restaurant their friend said was the best, and the drama of their pilgrimage - how they call themselves pilgrims - and their outrage over menus and changes in the offerings, all mixed with a ton of fancy dishes, flat dialogue with waiters, chunks of an untranslated decorative French – and a dance scene at the end which is supposed to convey happiness. The Americans dance in the street. Frankly, it's not that interesting. It’s not his best work, yet it gets read more often than his incredibe stuff—which is probably due to over-identification on the part of the American reading audience.

I do love William K. Maxwell’s writing. The one I love most is a lesser-known collection of short stories, or fables, titled The Old Man at the Railroad Crossing and Other Tales. Maxwell dedicated the book to Em, his wife. In the preface, he explains that many of the stories grew from tales he invented for her on sleepless nights.

The compositional method began with the first sentence: “The first sentence was usually a surprise…From the first sentence, everything else followed.”

Structured as fairy tales, many begin with that lingustic frame, as in “Once upon a time there was a man who had no enemies, only friends.”

Or: “Once upon a time there was a man who lost his father.”

And: “There was an old woman whose house was beside a bend in a running stream.”

Or else they phrase the problem at the outset, as in “Not everybody’s heart and mind reside in this body.”

The table of contents, itself, feels like a writing prompt—and I play a fun game where I attempt to match the first line to the title, to trace the tale’s costume to the thread.

“There are things that cannot be said except in a roundabout way,” Maxwell fables, “and things that cannot be done until you have done something else.” So in country where pigs bury their thoughts in hay, everybody has a special relationship to the hayloft, or to their knowledge of it. In a country where it only rains on Sundays, no one makes plans to host picnics on Sundays. Each fable creates a world by describing its peculiarities—or limitations. These are rules. And we can create entire stories by beginning with a rule about a world. The birds eat all the bells. The queens are actually kings. The creek is a highway to hell.

Borrowing from oral storytelling traditions, Maxwell changes the frame by adding explicative statements like “This is not as strange as it first seems..” or “One might have supposed that…”

To express the characters’ alienation from time, Maxwell gives us an image: “Every year the earth grows more out of touch with the sky.”

Here’s an excerpt from “The lamplighter,” one of my favorite stories in this collection—to give you a sense of the language and texture, the structure of the sky and time (see “coda”), and the anachronstic character of the lamplighter.

A large view of the boulevard feels grandiose and magnificent unless all the streets are boulevards, and all the views are large ones, in which case the magnificent grows monotonous. The strange is the storyteller’s best friend. A few writing games for those who love words and language—

Game 1

Write a brief tale titled after one of Maxwell’s stories as listed in the table of contents. Make the first sentence a surprise. Consider using an enchanted object. Develop your images by focusing on strange metaphors and fabulist time.

Game 2

Write a brief fable that begins with the statement: “Twice upon a time…” Let an object be the narrator.

Game 3

“Ahoretia” is the malady of lack of determination. Write a vignette about a character suffering from ahoretia who has gone to see a therapist for help. Let dialogue drive the story. Play with misunderstanding, or the absence of a shared daily world in which the protagonist attempts to create this world for the therapist, only to be met with the therapist’s world.

Booklist for writing the uncanny details

Brutality hides inside banality—beneath the ironed uniform, under the cassock of the priest, in the starched business decorum of the professional—the monstrous is made even more monstrous because it looks safe, ordinary, appropriate.

"Germany declared war on Russia. Went swimming all afternoon."

• Franz Kafka in his notebooks

This juxtaposition is horrifying precisely because it is banal. It reveals how life goes on as usual in the middle of tragedy, in the space after losing a loved one, in the hollows of genocide and wars, in the sunshine that greets a patient leaving the office where she has been given three months to live. The brutality of the ordinary assures us that life continues like a machine without us.

*

Brutality, banality, the screwiness of what is familair—and how certain writers have used fictional techniques that play into estrangement. I’m teaching a weekend workshop for Bending Genres (you can sign up for the asynchronous here)—and a weekend doesn’t give us adequate time to do more than dabble through excerpts and short readings. This makes me nauseous in some ways—nauseous because these books are formidable and deserve so much more than a dibble or a dabble.

So I created a booklist for writers who want to study the uncanny weirdnesss more closely—to get a deeper glimpse of the extraordinary, duplicitous banality in modern language. All of these books will be touched upon, or licked a bit, in the workshop. I hope that others find time to do more than to lick, which is to properly masticate and devour.

Not an exhaustive, but a tasty start.

The Promise by Silvina Ocampo, translated by Jessica Powell & Suzanne Jill Levine (City Lights Books)

The Voice Imitator: 104 Stories by Thomas Bernhard, translated by Keith Northcott (University of Chicago Press)

The Collected Stories of Diane Williams by Diane Williams (SoHo Press)

Bessarabian Stamps by Oleg Woolf, translated by Boris Dralyuk (Deep Vellum)

Nadirs by Herta Müller, translated by Sieglinde Lug (University of Nebraska Press)

The Encyclopedia of the Dead by Danilo Kiš, translated by Michael Henry Heim (Northwestern University Press)

A School for Fools by Sasha Sokolov, translated by Alexander Boguslawski (NYRB Classics)

On Being Blue: A Philosophical Inquiry by William Gass (NYRB Classics)

The World Goes On by László Krasznahorkai, translated by George Szirtes, Ottilie Mulzet and John Batki (New Directions)

The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington by Leonora Carrington (The Dorothy Project)

Do Everything in the Dark by Gary Indiana (ITNA Press)

Empire of the Senseless by Kathy Acker (Grove Atlantic)

We Others by Steven Millhauser (Knopf Doubleday)

Microscripts by Robert Walser, translated by Susan Bernofsky (New Directions)

The Walk by Robert Walser, translated by Susan Bernofsky and Christopher Middleton (New Directions)

For writers trying to learn the genre known as the "pitch."

There is this thing called a “pitch” or a “query form” that can be daunting. I say this as someone who has yet to query an agent because the pitch itself is daunting to me.

Here’s a great how-to example from Cassie Maines, an agent and writer with Howland Literary Agency.

Eric Smith has devoted an entire page to the variants of this genre on his blog, including notes on why talking about yourself in relation to other authors may be a mistake. Smith also includes a fabulous list of twitter authors and agents who regularly spend time discussing the system and how it works.

On the book review side, Adam Morgan compiled a long list of sources and references which is right here. And there is a related twitter thread filled with helpful comments from book critics, including this one:

All this is just to say: twitter often serves as a resource for writers reviewing books and looking for agents. Don’t be afraid to engage the generosity of twitter literature community, especially if you don’t have personal access to publishers.

"The world is no place for poets": Notes on infra-noir and Romanian surrealists.

Initially, I had planned to be an alchemist.

This is what my Romanian father said when I asked him why he became a metallurgist. The esoterics of alchemy inflect Romanian poetics, particulary that of the interwar avant-garde movements.

The desire to create an immortal metal exists in poetry as well as science. The poem changes forms in translation, acquires the burden of new borders, new customs, new contexts that the foreign reader can't access. I've been wandering through Romanian surrealism lately, and leaning into the alchemical in a recent series of poem-dialogues with the poets of the interwar period.

The backstory matters.

WHO IS GHERASIM LUCA?

Born in Bucharest in 1913 as Zollmann Locker, Gherasim Luca was a Romanian Jew who survived the Antonescu's fascist Iron Guard regime only to flee the rise of the Communist regime for Paris in the 1950s, where he helped to found the Romanian Surrealist group, an assemblage of un-Breton-like writers and artists who deserve more attention. (More specifics on this under Bucharest Surrealists.)

In 1931 and 1932, as neo-fascist nationalism gained ground in Romania, Luca worked with other Bucharest writers to create two ephemeral magazines with scandalous titles, namely Pula («Dick/Penis») and Muci («Boogers»), which were sent to some important personalities of the time, such as Nicolae Iorga, considered by many to be an intellectual apostle of nationalism. In response, Iorga called the police to arrest “the gang of the spoilers of writing”. So Luca and his fellow journal editors were were arrested and imprisoned for several days on the accusation of pornography.

Throughout the 1930's, Luca continued to publish his radical work in countless literary journals. where Ovidiu Morar says "he vehemently denounced the exploitation of the proletariat, the officially encouraged anti-Semitism, the fascist danger, and the increasingly threatening specter of the war, meanwhile sustaining the idea of an «engaged» (or «revolutionary») literature." He laid himself out as the primary theorist of "proletarian poetry" in a series of articles published in 1935 in the left-wing magazine Cuvântul liber.

Per Morar, Luca thought "proletarian poetry (which was opposed to the «pure» poetry, considered to be in the service of the dominant class) had to reflect the deep contradictions of the bourgeois society, in other words, the motor had to be the class struggle." The anti-bourgeois and anti-aestheticist tone of "Poem of the Gentle People" lays out the tension between exploiter and exploited so well:

I know at last the infamy of the gentle people
I know those people with wet and round hands, ready to caress everybody
I know also their thin and smiling lips that always have one or two words of pity, of caress
oh, thin and infamous lips, against which I should write all my poems
thin lips, smiling lips, made for touching the forehead, for saying a prayer

Luca ends this poem with the following warning:

comrades,
the robbers who break in the house at night to steal
are just as dangerous, either masked or with uncovered faces
their masks, their smiles, their words of priest and god
must be once for good unmasked

THE BUCHAREST SURREALISTS

In 1938, Gherasim Luca left for Paris, where he met André Breton and other members of the French surrealist group, but the outbreak of the war forced him to return to Bucharest, where he settled, together with Gellu Naum, forming what would later be known as the Bucharest surrealist group (the other members were the poets Paul Paun and Virgil Teodorescu, and the painter Dolfi Trost). Otherwise, the adverse political context (the setting up of Antonescu’s fascist dictatorship and his alliance with Hitler) forced the group to suspend its activity by the end of the war (besides their communist sympathies, Luca, Păun and Trost were Jews).

The Bucharest Surrealists were active between 1940 and 1947, and they openly critiqued Breton's Parisian surrealists for giving up on revolution in the name of a dicta, a replicable formula or style that put value in the repetitious techniques as avenues for truth rather than revolt. Fijalkowski notes that the Bucharest surrealists were mostly writers, and the painters connected with them, Brauner and Hérold, spent this period in France. 

The group would explore a range of explicitly anti-aesthetic (in Luca and Trost’s words, “aplastiques, objectifs et entièrement non-artistiques” ‘aplastic, objective and totally non-artistic’) visual practices. Notable among these was the domain of the object, developed in particular by Luca during the early 1940s with his notion of the “Objectively Offered Object,” a game in which found and constructed objects might act as lightning rods for interpersonal exchange, sorcery and divination; Luca’s account of this experience Le Vampire passif is illustrated with a number of such assemblages. (1)

November 1940 saw a huge earthquake in Bucharest (which Luca described in The Passive Vampire), so collapse was always part of living, creating, divining for him. The architecture of existence resembled the fractures of a street during earthquake.

CUBO-MANIA

Around August 1944, when the fascist wartime regime fell apart in Romania (a topic that deserves an entire book) that Luca came up with his method of "cubomania":

A collage in which source material is sliced into precise squares and reassembled as small grids of tessellated papers, its formal economy masks an ambitious conceptual framework that makes the process not only unique within surrealist collage practice but also one of the most theoretically-driven instances of surrealist image-making. Two exhibitions in Bucharest, in 1945 and 1946, and a pair of small publications – one, Les Orgies des quanta, devoted exclusively to the cubomania – presented the first results to the public. 

The war wasn't over. The catastrophe changed shape and continued. Luca, himself, had been forced to work as a street cleaner, clearing away rubble and bodies after bombardments. (Note to self: a link between this and Antoine Volodine's rubble-cleaner as a form of metaphysical and social innocence.) 

Statements co-authored with Dolfi Trost in 1945 insist "their visual works, far from constituting an artistic practice of the kind that Dialectique de la dialectique critiqued, should be read as the visible signs of a revolutionary theoretical program." 1945 also saw the publication of The Passive Vampire, where Luca defined the objectively offered object as "an object made while thinking of the person to whom it was intended," allowing it to serve as a vehicle for intimate or intellectual exchanges which can be reinterpreted, almost an icon, a space for apocalyptic thought. (See, for example, "Le lettre L".)

"We agree with dream, madness, love, and revolution," they wrote, against class and poverty and death.  Towards delirium, weeping, somnambulism, the concrete,the  absurd, desire, hysteria, furs, black magic, "the dialectics of the dialectic", simulacra, flames, vice, "objective chance," cryptaesthesia, and bloodstains. Towards ecstasy. Towards a permanent revolutionary state, Luca said, "The cubomania denies. The cubomania renders the known unknown." It negates the images that oppress us, and one can discern a critique of consumer culture and the modern nation-state in this, I think.

Late nineteenth century engravings, reproductions of early twentieth century academic or impressionist-style paintings, and contemporary mass-media photographs of nudes, the three sources of the cubomanias of the 1940s, together span an era of the previous fifty years whose structural integrity had failed (Luca’s project echoing in more violent and pessimistic form Walter Benjamin’s archaeology of the outmoded fragment or ruin).

And Morar translates Luca's statements on cubomania from Inventatorul iubirii:

this vibrating mixture of fragmented women, unknown or partially known, and that are attracted to me with an irresistible force, in circumstances without equivalence in the ready-made world of the current or exceptional phenomena, but that remind sometimes of the processes of displacement and condensation suffered by the phenomena of the dream life.

These bodies of women dynamited in me, fragmented and mutilated by my monstrous thirst for a monstrous love, have at last the liberty to search and find outside the marvelous from the bottom of their being, and nothing will make me believe anything but the fact that love is this mortal entrance in the marvelous. 

INFRA-NOIR

In January 1945, Dolfi Trost and Gherasim Luca exhibited their mixed media work. One month later, a similar mixed media surrealist exhibit featured Paul Păun's work. 

But the big date was in the fall of 1946, when Infra-noir happened, including work from Dolfi Trost, Gherasim Luca, Paul Păun, Virgil Teodorescu, and Gellu Naum. The text they selected to represent this event, "Chercher le triple sur les ruines du double" ("Seek the triple on the ruins of the double"), spoke directly to the desire to negate its own negations:

Infra-noir was initially intended to be an international survey of surrealist art, an ambition frustrated by the precarious state of communications in Europe at that moment, and there is a sense in which the works on display, and the cubomania in particular, not only had to stand in for those from the absent international movement, but already to start the work of their inevitable critical dépassement.

Significantly, the group’s contribution to the 1947 International Surrealist Exhibition in Paris was not with artworks, but with a text proposing a great, pitch- black room in which to encounter unknown objects (Luca, Naum, Păun, Teodorescou, and Trost, “Le Sable nocturne”). After the war, however, Luca continued to pursue a number of visual experiments, such as fragile and meticulous drawings constructed from constellations of dots, and intriguing text/image dossiers in which found albums of photographs were re-energized by new poetic captions.

Unlike Tristan Tzara's sarcastic absurdism and near-nihilism, the Bucharest group thought randomness- for-randomness' sake was fruitless; their approach was both critical and dialectical procedure. When Tzara and his friends visited Bucharest in November 1946 for the Infra-Noir, Luca and a few others sent him an insulting letter saying as much.  I think of ceremony and play, using dialectic to negate the negation, the revolt against perception could be seen and applied to consumerism. I think of the grave yard stickers on the backs of trucks and cars.

The surrealist commitment to epistemological rupture carried an ontological component for the Bucharest surrealists. In 1947, Luca carried the Infra-noir further with Le Secret du vide et du plein: "Replace the real by the possible and anticipate their confusion . . . To forget forgetting, to triple the double, to void the void, is to invent plenitude in its movement."

Luca married Micheline Catti and collaborated with her. He stayed busy in Paris; he stayed in the orbit of artistic happenings, including his presence in Fluxus events like the Festum Fluxorum, Paris December 1962, or the 1957 painting Bouquet made in collaboration with Beat poets Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, and Peter Orlovsky.

Also, to quote Morar again:

Another, more tentative, source with Romanian connections – not that Luca would have cared for enquiries along such nationalist lines – is a photographic album by Benjamin Fondane from the 1930s, in which either rational or arbitrary selections of images are arranged in loose, playful grids on black backgrounds. The album has only recently become known through its inclusion in the exhibition and catalogue La Subversion des images (Bajac 206-07), but it seems plausible that, as fellow expatriates and friends of Victor Brauner, Fondane and Luca may have discussed the work during the latter’s stay in Paris at the end of the 1930s. (2)

42 INFRA-NOIR OBJECTS

All of this, perhaps, is the context for my poetic series, 43 Infra-noir objects, which draws on collage forms. Each object contains traces from the writings of those who participated in the Infra-noir exhibit. Rather than invoke these ghosts by name within the poem, I engage them in the ruins of their own words, in the collision and collapse of meaning, in the images that continue to divide us.

I am grateful to Poetry at Sangam for giving these three untitled pieces from the series a home—and to Priya Sarukkai Chabria, for making space for them among the other fascinating voices.

END-NOTES AND ADDENDA

(1) Fijalkowski, Krzysztof. "Cubomania: Gherasim Luca and Non-Oedipal Collage." Dada/Surrealism 20 (2015): n. pag. Web. Note also collaborations with artists were a notable aspect of Luca’s activity from the 1950s onwards, and his books featured contributions and exchanges with figures such as Victor Brauner, Jacques Hérold, Matta, Max Ernst, Wifredo Lam, Jean Arp, Dorothea Tanning, and above all with his wife Micheline Catti.

(2) Ovidiu Morar looks at Deleuze's love for Luca, particularly the stutter of the "schizoid-revolutionary" as opposed to the "paranoid-fascist", the reading of which is very common right now. He brings in the poem, "Niciodata destul," or never enough, which developsfrom phonemes and fragments in the word "proportional", which Lucas decomposes and subverts against nationalism, anti-semitism, and war. "popor" and "prop" get close, the last line being "de popor proportional."

(3) Veronica Porumbea was also a Romanian-Jewish poet. Unlike Celan, she had no trouble following Party lines in her writing. She worked as a translator and stayed publishable throughout. And there is the romance of prisons, perhaps, the way my heart assumes what is imprisoned is always the goodness, the lone voice – and what is criminal is the system, those who run the Writers Union, who owned the arts funding, who tell us that natives should be valued over immigrants. The risk of power— the risk of being at the top—comes with purges.

"Revenge" by Diane Williams.

From The Collected Stories of Diane Williams, published by Soho Press in October 2018.

"LASS / LET" by Aria Aber.

Lass, which could mean many different things in English: sweetheart, young girl, a feminine darling. In German, it only means to “let” something happen...

The line that has carried me through my nights, companioned or no, my lyrical creation myth, begins as an imperative in both languages. It supposes obedience, wants to instruct. Like a master, this word heralds into the room with agency, with an agenda. Rilke wrote, “God talks to us before he makes each one of us”—what tameness brought him there?

Gott spricht mit jedem von uns ehe er in macht—

Rilke wrote The Book of Hours in Russia, where he was startled by God's presence. Like Nietzsche before him, Rilke thought God to be pantheistic, all-encompassing.

Marina Tsvetaeva said of Rilke that he was pure; poetry incarnate; that he was the only clean, and cleansing, soul among war-destroyed Europe, because his poetry refused to acknowledge that terror.

My mother let me happen to her. She let prison happen to her, simply because she believed in Women's Rights and Afghanistan as a sovereign state. She went to prison with her little sister, and she emerged. She was, I can say now, a political prisoner. She let it happen to her; then she decided to leave her family behind, move on for love, for family, for me.

This sacrifice let her become monstrous. She let monstrosity happen to her, then offered it back to me. When I ask, “God, who am I?” am I not just asking, Mother, who are you?

Let me rephrase this—are there any mothers that aren't cruel, perverse, unbelievable?

Rilke's mother, to this day, is called “perverse” and “unbelievable” by many male critics. She is ostracized, her own monster. She was a woman, she had her tics. She had opinions.

Rilke, who writes as neither man nor woman, is influenced mostly by God. Rilke loves God endlessly 𝑢𝑛𝑑 is not ashamed of it. Brecht called his relationship to God “gay.” I like to believe Rilke wouldn't have cared, would have said: “Let me be gay with God, then.”

As Ulrich Braer puts it, Rilke's God wasn't a fascist or heterosexist; he simply was, encompassing both the finite feelings of physical intimacy and his Drau fensein, his being-outside.

The transitive verb 𝑙𝑒𝑡 supposes danger; it is aware of the other, like paranoia. It is influenced by the other, only exists in relation. Let is only summoned when we want to be done away with: let me do this.

Meaning: give me permission. Let this happen to you. Let it go.

Meaning: I give you the permission to abandon it. Let me go outside!

Let me be

everything that happens to you.

[from Hard Damage, University of Nebraska Press]

A list of prose poems to explore.

Alejandra Pizarnik, “Sex, Night” (trans. by P. Ferrari & Forrest Gander) ^
Alexander Long, “Meditation on a Suicide”
Alina Stefanescu, “Hush Hush Hush” and “Two Faces”
Amaris Feland Ketcham, “How We Echo”
Amelia Martens, “A Robin Pulls a Thread”
Amorak Huey, “Prayer for What I Do Not Want”
Ann Waldman, “Stereo”
Anne Carson, “Short Talks” ^
Aria Aber, “Lass/Let”
Arthur Rimbaud, “First Evening” (translated by Kline)
Beckian Fritz Goldberg, “Past Immaculate”
Beckian Fritz Goldberg, “Enchanted Egg, #2”
Beckian Fritz Goldberg, “He Said Discipline Is the Highest Form of Love”
Beckian Fritz Goldberg, “Afterlife”
Beckian Fritz Goldberg, “The One with the Darkest Hair”
Ben Miller, “The Opposite of That Famous Story”
Bob Hicok, “Prose Poem Essay on the Prose Poem”
Brenda Hillman, “Childhood” - an essay in rhyme
Cameron Awkward-Rich, “Meditations in an Emergency”
Campbell McGrath, “The Prose Poem”
Carol Dorf, “On the Way Out of Memory Palace”
Carol Guess
Cecilia Woloch, “Postcard to I. Kaminsky from a Dream at the Edge of the Sea”
Charles Rafferty, “The Problem with Sappho” ^
Charles Simic, “Heroic Moment”
Christopher Kennedy, “Personality Quiz”
Christopher Kennedy, “The Genius”
Claudia Rankine, 2 poems from Citizen, I ^
Czeslaw Milosz, “Decency”
Daniel Poppick, “The Apple’s Floor”
Daniel Romo, “Attention”
Danielle Mitchell, “Year of the Dig”
David Daniel, “Paint”
David Daniel, “Hotel”
David Ignatow, “Forever”
David Ignatow, “Information”
David Keplinger
David Shumate, 3 prose poems
Deborah Digges, “Fence of Sticks”
Denise Duhamel, “Napping on the Afternoon of My 39th Birthday”
Denise Duhamel, “Infiltration”
Denise Duhamel, “The Drag Queen Inside Me” ^
Denise Duhamel, “Permanence”
Diane Raptosh, “Husband” 
Dina Relles, “In A Sunday Kitchen”
Doug Martin, “Morning Sickness”
Emma Bolden, “Describe the Situation in Specific Detail”
Essy Stone, “Among the Prophets”
Fanny Howe, “Second Childhood”
Frank O'Hara, “Meditations in an Emergency”
Frank O’Hara, “The Eyelid Has Its Storms” ^
Gabriel Gudding, “A Defense of Poetry” ^
Gary Young, “Four Poems”
Geoffrey Dyer, “Tuesday, April 11, 2006”
Geoffrey Dyer, “Wednesday, January 26, 2006”
Gian Lombardo, “On the Mark”
Gian Lombardo, “Three Wishes”
Howie Good, “Door to the River”
James Tate, “All Over the Lot”
James Tate, “Goodtime Jesus” ^
James Wright, “Honey”
Jane Harrington, “Ossein Pith”
Jayne Anne Phillips, “Happy”
Jean Follain, “Prose Poem” (translated by William Matthews and Mary Feeney)
Jennifer Givhan, “Domestic” ^
Jennifer Martinelli, “The Devil Tides”
John Ashbery, “The Young Son” ^
Kellie Wells, “Desertion”
Laird Hunt, “Michiko and Akiko”
Lance Larsen, “32 Views from the Hammock” - list poem
Lawrence Goeckel, “The Last Days Before the Age of Industry”
Layli Long Solider, “Introduction” - docupoetics
Layli Long Solider, excerpt from “Whereas”  
Lucy Ives, Three paragraphs from The Nineties
Mark Strand, “Dream Testicles, Vanished Vaginas”
Mark Vinz, “Letter from the Cabin”
Mark Yakich, “The Ordinary Sun”
Mark Yakich, “The Mountain”
Marvin Bell, “About the Dead Man, Ashes and Dust”
Matthew Rohrer, “Disquistion on Trees”
Maxine Chernoff, “The Sound” ^
Maxine Chernoff, “Simple Gifts”
Maxine Chernoff, “Subtraction”
Mary Ruefle, “On Twilight” ^
Metta Sama, “Outlaw”
Mia Ayumi Mamalhotra, “On the street where a certain democratic leader lives…” ^
Michael Benedikt, “Three Sensualities”
Naomi Shihab Nye, “Hammer and Nail”
Nathan Parker, “Choice Pines”
Nicole Sealey, “Even the Gods” 
Nin Andrews, “Adolescence”
Nin Andrews, “The Magic of Forgetting”
Nin Andrews, “How to Deal with Rejection”
Nin Andrews, “1967”
Peter Davis, “Poem Addressing Boys, Age 5”
Peter Davis, “Poem Addressing People Who Are Tired, Hungry, or Horny”
Randall Horton, “After Ruin”
Ray Gonzales, “Who Were You?”
Ray Gonzales, “I Saw” -a list of objects
Rob Carney, “Movie Review”
Robert Haas, “My Mother’s Nipples”
Robert Hill Long, “Doing Hatha Yoga”
Robert Lopez, “Man on Bus with Blindsters”
Ron Silliman, “Final For”
Rosmarie Waldrop, “The Material World”
Russell Edson, “Let Us Consider” ^
Russell Edson, “A Love Letter”
Sean Thomas Daugherty, “In the Light of One Lamp”
Sean Thomas Daugherty, “Two Variations on a Paisley”
Sean Thomas Daugherty, “Untitled” ^
Sho Spaeth, “Moods—Yoel Hoffmann”
Steve Berg, “Shaving”
Stuart Dybek, “Alphabet Soup”
T. S. Eliot, “Hysteria”
Terrance Hayes, “A Land Governed by Unkindness Reaps No Kindness”
The Cyborg Jillian Weisse, “My Friend Says I Should Be Thinking about “Masked Intimacy” When I Think about Leila Olive”
Tomas Transtromer
Yoel Hoffmann, “9”
Yoel Hoffmann, from Curriculum Vitae
Zach Savich, “Melon City” 
Zach Savich, “Chestnut City”
Zach Savich, “Sheet City”
Zachary Schomburg, “The Fire Cycle” ^
Zbigniew Herbert, “The Wall” ^

And some books. Guide to Prose Poetry (Rose Metal Press) - Renee Gladman, Calamities (Wave Books) - David Shumate, High Water Mark (University of Pittsburgh Press) - Michael Benedikt, The Prose Poem: An International Anthology - Russell Edson, The Reason Why the Closet Man Is Never Sad (1972) - Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations - Claudia Rankine, Citizen - Czeslaw Milosz, Roadside Dog - Frank O'Hara, Meditations in An Emergency (Grove Atlantic, 1957) - Mark Strand, The Monument (denied 1978 Pultizer Prize) - Top 10 prose poetry books according to Daniel Hales

"Object Permanence" by Hala Alyan

This neighborhood was mine first. I walked each block twice:
drunk, then sober. I lived every day with legs and headphones.
It had snowed the night I ran down Lorimer and swore I’d stop
at nothing. My love, he had died. What was I supposed to do?
I regret nothing. Sometimes I feel washed up as paper. You’re
three years away. But then I dance down Graham and
the trees are the color of champagne and I remember—
There are things I like about heartbreak, too, how it needs
a good soundtrack. The way I catch a man’s gaze on the L
and don’t look away first. Losing something is just revising it.
After this love there will be more love. My body rising from a nest
of sheets to pick up a stranger’s MetroCard. I regret nothing.
Not the bar across the street from my apartment; I was still late.
Not the shared bathroom in Barcelona, not the red-eyes, not
the songs about black coats and Omaha. I lie about everything
but not this. You were every streetlamp that winter. You held
the crown of my head and for once I won’t show you what
I’ve made. I regret nothing. Your mother and your Maine.
Your wet hair in my lap after that first shower. The clinic
and how I cried for a week afterwards. How we never chose
the language we spoke. You wrote me a single poem and in it
you were the dog and I the fire. Remember the courthouse?
The anniversary song. Those goddamn Kmart towels. I loved them,
when did we throw them away? Tomorrow I’ll write down
everything we’ve done to each other and fill the bathtub
with water. I’ll burn each piece of paper down to silt.
And if it doesn’t work, I’ll do it again. And again and again and—