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New Poems by Grzegorz Wr?blewsk E-mail
Thursday, March 01

Translated from the Polish by Agnieszka Pokojska

A poem by Marc Vincenz E-mail
Tuesday, January 31

For the Shadow Council
Four New Poems by Pat Nolan E-mail
Wednesday, January 04
Babelante by Andrei-Calin Mihailescu E-mail
Sunday, December 11
the man speaks languages like they were hors d'oeuvres in a Queens restaurant, when they are in fact clefs to chef d'oeuvres in a masterly corpus litteraire
Poezii de S?nziana-Maria Stoie E-mail
Monday, December 05
These are from "Noaptea," (Night), poems by a young Romanian poet. She is worth learning Romanian for.
Throat Song And Notes E-mail
Sunday, November 20
cutting the throat
utting the throat
tting the throat
ting the throat
ing the throat
ng the throat
g the throat
the throat
he throat
e throat
New Poetick by Simon Perchik E-mail
Friday, September 30
when k ends your name g is not far
Three New Works by Joel Dailey E-mail
Monday, September 19
man elusive like his magazine
Two poems by Athena Kashyap E-mail
Wednesday, September 14


Until early this century, Hindus believed that if you crossed the oceans, the “black waters,” by leaving the physical boundaries of India, you would lose your identity and become an outcaste.

Poems by Elizabeth Raby E-mail
Tuesday, September 13

There was a time, an ancient time, when books

were made mostly by monks.
New Poems by Richard Martin, our man in Boston E-mail
Monday, September 12

 Free Immanuel Kant! says Richard Martin of 40 Searle Road, Boston, MA 02132













Prehuman Bug Guy To Life E-mail
Tuesday, August 23
as translated from Ro’do Bo’
(from an unknown poet)

My lower calves are books of bug bites
I read them and read them with transparent annoyance
penance I think for the day when an angry goddess
poured a pail of soapy water and detergent into a hornets' nest
and destroyed their civilisation just like ours very soon
when we'll sting unknowingly the eyelid of beautiful Terra
with the teensy tear in her asphalt skirt

Chiggers are terrific! They terror into your skin
tiny red flecks of tongue left from your last sexy
and you are multitudinous like a diseased lolly pop
Yes, the giant spider outside of my winder is
she's big as a wallop from a sock of coins
how I pay for staple foods like sack of bread
they call my spider a writing spider because
she doesn't write anything all day and fat
her butt is always up genitals breezing in the air
so she must be a poet I pulled down my tight pants
showed her my bumble bee and she threatened to dance
like a trampoline except her husband is a tiny cuck down
We're slobbering over his desire to be beaten by big big
chiggers have no hierarchy and no despots they do not
watch the text of your leg change into a love story
there are no love stories anymore because everyone
is afraid insects carry disease and no one wants to itch
But itching is terrific! It means sex! It's smiling at me!
Do I Dare Disturb the Universe? asks Scott Bailey E-mail
Thursday, July 14













Sam Abrams on Walt Whitman, New Poems, and Misc. E-mail
Monday, June 20
when I start to brood...
Doina Ioanid translated from the Romanian by Florin Bican E-mail
Friday, June 17
Doina Ioanid
Translated from the Romanian by Florin Bican

Translator’s note: Doina Ioanid or the epiphany of melancholy

Doina Ioanid’s earlier volumes explore a contracting universe of recognizable enough objects rendered surreal by a painstakingly-pursued process of defamiliarization. In her fifth volume of verse, Chants for Taming the Hedgehog Sow (“Ritmuri de imblinzit aricioaica”, Cartea Romaneasca, Bucharest, Romania 2010), the poet’s earlier universe contracts further still, maintaining nevertheless its epiphanic dimension. Her prose poems are just as many epiphanies, trimming poetic perception – and expression – of all excess baggage. Yet stark they are not. They are, rather, streamlined vehicles (deep-sea vessels spring to mind), and very sophisticated ones at that, meant to take the reader beyond usually unquestioned borders, into an abyss both familiar and scary. While exploring herself, Doina Ioanid seems to trigger off in the reader an irrepressible urge to replicate the process with his/her own personal data. Never was intimacy more discreet – or more universal, for that matter. And that’s what makes Doina Ioanid’s poetry so substantial: the constant yet delicate delving into a multilayered, multifaceted reality in a redemptive attempt to make sense of things without robbing them of their aura. It’s in their inner radiance that epiphany manifests itself, making Doina Ioanid’s poems transcend the harshness of personal experience into a realm verging on both James Joyce’s epiphanies and Gerard Manley Hopkins’ inscapes: Way too tired, way too myopic. Even my name, a squashed clam, sinks through my skin deep within me, past soft tissues, past organs pulsating like terrified suns, deep down where none of the things on the outside can force their way in any more. Doina Ioanid’s poems are just as many instances of complete combustion – acts, thoughts, emotions, memories and feelings are purged of all randomness until exalted to vibrant albeit relaxed significance. There’s not one word too many in there, and the poor translator has a hard time rearranging the vastness and intensity of Doina Ioanid’s poetic perception and expression into an exquisite set of Chinese boxes. Moreover, these Chinese boxes constantly communicate with each other, not only within the same volume, but also from one volume to the other. When translating Doina Ioanid’s poems one has to be at one’s most alert in order not to miss the relevant channels of communication. Still, it’s exhilarating when one hears the translation humming with a melody of its own and recognizes (with a sigh of relief!) the ioanidness of the translated text. Even if one is consumed by its combustion…
Five Poems by Michael Salcman E-mail
Thursday, June 16
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