Category / Issue #67 February 2017

Review: Anna Świrszczyńska

In this month’s installment, reviews editor Adam Tavel examines an iconic volume of Polish war poems in a new translation. Building the Barricade by Anna Świrszczyńska translated by Piotr Florczyk Tavern Books $17, 254 pages published April 2016

Editor’s Note

February: yes, readers, the shortest month, and in acknowledgment of or rather aligning with such I want to offer today the briefest of these editorial missives on record. Not altogether coincidentally my note this time begins with a passage from

Closed Eye Vision of Independe…

                                           —after Stan Brackhage   Dazzled drunks are bent over with laughter, apparitional as truth on some little path, everything stands for everything, night is short. Life and its explosive brother death, what are we supposed to do is

Some Answers

No, I will not change. I don’t think it’s news. Neither will you. No, I haven’t eaten in years, never loved your quetzal- feathered pork chops, your shoulder- blade soup. Like Job said, be- hold, I am vile. Like we


I long to move closer To the outskirts Of Poetryville. I’ve even Invited the mayor And his halfling wife For peanut butter And crackers. But still, out here— The fishing Is swell. And the mountaineer’s Cross-eyed Little boys Have agreed

Cento for the Turn of the Year

                        NOTE: On December 11. 2016, a group of PLUME poets, beautifully MC’d by Sally-Bliumis-Dunn in the absence of Danny Lawless, gave a reading at the Jefferson Market Library in NYC. In the following weeks, I was inspired to stitch


Whenever we were out on the dance floor, I always looked at your face, while you looked downward, inward, at something I couldn’t see. Your arms were flexing, moving. The music swelled and contracted. What were you dreaming? I was

Three Poems

    Max Ritvo Photo by Ashley Woo   SEND A SEARCH PARTY My joints are full of dewy lights like the restaurant’s buzz when my table is ready. In a healthy person, red gum takes the light, and gulps

My Love

Place your hand, my love, against my heart And feel the pounding in its tiny room. A gnarled and wicked carpenter, I assume, Is nailing my coffin’s last remaining part.   He hammers it and carves all day and night.

New Year’s Day Truce, 19…

He looked old and tired and crunchy, the color of a tobacco leaf, or a withered date. He might have come from the garbage room or the water closet, or the makeshift library across the hall. Perhaps he’d been munching

Featured Selection: David Lehm…

Photo Credit: Stacey Harwood By way of introduction to this month’s Featured Selection of new poems by David Lehman, we offer an extensive interview with our own Associate Editor for Special Projects, the estimable Nancy Mitchell, followed by the work itself and

Essays and Comment: Michael An…

When Buffalo Became Buffalo   There are several issues embedded in my title, I suppose, not only when Buffalo, the private University (after 1962 the State University of New York at Buffalo), became Buffalo but how and why Buffalo became

The gap between

the platform & the train meant certain death Granma said. Not this time, no, of course & maybe also not the next but one of these trips to see her only daughter’s family, soon & then won’t you feel like

Two Poems

A Love Letter from Larkin     Dearest, while waiting for my cheese to melt I think of you and listen to Bechet. We seem to be less close. It’s all my fault.   The crocuses, your nice blue frock…

The Madness of Crowds

Tulip Long thought wrongly to be Turkish for turban but as it was fashionable in the Ottoman Empire to put tulips on turbans perhaps the translator   was confused having gone astray in alleys of Ordu or Constantinople, where the