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Jia: I’ve deleted all my by
gones and ghosted each and every
version of myself: a kingdom I don’t
believe in anymore.
Twenty-seven days in nickel-freezing
northern Michigan beneath
those denuded Tamaracks
in the evil Red Lodge.
New poetry by Nicholas Rombes.
What about in the daylight? What do you think of me then, huh? What do I look like then? Is the dog face just in bed? Just at night when we’re doing it? Perhaps I should buy milady some candles to soften her night vision? If you’d let me take you from behind, you wouldn’t have to see my dog face at all! If you’d deign to roll over!
A short story from Arnaud Cathrine, translated by Christine Gutman.
These pieces are influenced by the phenomenon of consciousness – a potentially infinite space set within a finite body which is itself set within a potentially infinite universe. Explorers make what they can of it but language and imagery can only go so far.
In the 123rd of the Poem Brut series, new poetry by Vicki Kaye.
Seed is delicate and exquisite, an extraordinary read. It asks questions inside each paragraph and sentence, within each blank space. It unpacks the very language in which it is written, as though its words were continually in movement. As I sit looking at the book, I plan to pass it on to my teenage daughters, wondering if they will find themselves turning inside.
Susanna Crossman reviews Joanna Walsh‘s Seed.
“I once ended an interview with the suggestion to write a poem or story like you would a prayer, and to not tell anyone what you’re doing. Really put yourself into it, and don’t hold back because you’re not going to show anyone. Print it off if it’s on your computer and delete the file so you only have the one copy. Now, go out into the world, on a hike, or on a boat, or to your local corner store, and gently tear it up. Bury it, throw it into the water, light it on fire, drop it into a large city trashcan or fold it into a paper airplane and toss it off a cliff. You made something you loved, only for yourself, and now it’s your secret with the universe. How special is that?”
Chris Kelso interviews Andrew J. Wilt.
These labels that can inspire unwarranted fear, hatred, or indeed complete disregard all combine in Licorice’s own existence as it morphs from reality into one of myth, like the refugees. People confined not just to inhabit the various interstices that life throws up, but confined to become the interstice itself where even a birth name becomes forgotten. These interstices that are starkly imprisoning and divergent from the liberating interstice experienced by the reader when engaging with the art of this novel.
Jane Roberts reviews Bridget Penney‘s Licorice.
It was unpleasant having to walk through dark passages reeking of human and dog urine, but what I worried about was the credibility of the guy I was going to meet. He was an experienced driver of about sixty who preferred an early start, his carpooling profile said. Mine said I was an experienced passenger who preferred jazz but could stand any music, if it was what helped.
A short story by Dunja Ilić.
“His remaining a revolutionary to the very end takes with it a whiff of suspicion for the literary liberal elite. He is tainted by the crimes of communism despite being one of the very first to point them out, and one of the first to fight against them. His tortured support for Trotsky’s suppression of Kronstadt is given as damning evidence. But, as Serge was to argue, the ultimate choice at the time was between the Red Army and the White Army. Which to choose? Even the most sainted have their flaws.”
Ben Granger recalls the life and legacy of revolutionary and writer Victor Serge.
You probably have to discipline yourself to focus on the process of writing ‘over all else’, but you don’t have to focus upon that ‘over all else’, and it doesn’t have to be (can’t be, if you want to pay the rent or have friends or family) ‘over all else’. That’s one reason for people’s quietism or giving up, I think. (I’ve had students who’ve said, ‘I enjoyed the course, but I know now I can never be dedicated enough to be a writer’, or, more poignantly, ‘These two,’ pointing to his young children, ‘These two need a dad!’) But if you are promised, or promise yourself, a career path that involves literati celebrity and fame (or, it’s worth saying, if you promise yourself posthumous celebration alone, bundling up manuscripts for futurity), it sure isn’t going to work out well! I suppose that means the work must be its own reward, whether it’s recognised or not. And you must ‘have a life’, the human covenant demands as much.
In the 107th of the Maintenant series, SJ Fowler interviews the British poet Robert Sheppard.
The arguments amongst family members and madcap moments amid the domestic drama are brutally funny. For all his maximalist tendencies, Cohen has always had a knack for conversation amongst the quick-witted in close quarters: one ear for dialogue, the other for diatribe. As grotesque as some of the antics may be, these comedic nuggets are carbon-dated, sifted from the rubble of those novels that chronicled mid-century American Jewish life so well. They’d be too on the nose, no pun intended, if they didn’t work so well.
Ryan David Allen reviews Joshua Cohen‘s The Netanyahus.