I

[x x x (x)]
[x x x (x)] x la

traces
(rest destroyed)

Romanian poetry, like Romanian film, is quite the rage these days, in translation or written directly in (interstitial) English. “Foreign” or vernacular-interstitial-creole poetries are gangbusting the well-manicured lawns, the faux-romantic hollows, and the fractured dictionaries of current AmPo, like ruptured oxygen tanks. The barbarians are here, Seferis, and they are so-o-o-o cool. Here are a few by George Vasilievich, Magda Carneci, and other dark-sound vocabularists.

the maybes and the almosts

for lena pasternak



love your melancholia, dictionaries lie.

It's the American Academy in Rome and the Spanish Steps plus Florence.

We are a Darrel Gray-worshipping- kind-of--publication, so we are sure that we've given you Steve Toth's to Darrel Gray 1 and 2. But if we haven't, please deduce.

It's been a while since the Russo-Portuguese-monickered Yankee Surrealist Ivan Arguelles made the Corpse! Welcome back, Baudelairian gusano! He has a new book out and this would be PR if we remembered the name of it.

New Works by Mark Sargent

Braden Bell rings with more and more clarity.

Translation is, ideally, a buddhist exercise in ego-shedding. Practically, it's ego-boosting from a dead writer. Sometimes it's a mix. And sometimes it's about what it's about. Which in the case of poetry is never the case.

Ok, Steve, just don't let anybody else in on it

Mark Sargent in brave waters

Poets stick together