Richard Ford, editor of The Essential Tales of Chekhov, stories translated by Constance Garnett: Ford selects twenty stories by the Russian master, including provocative lesser-known pieces by Chekhov in his youth, as well as widely anthologized classics. (Ecco)
for John Engman (1949–1996) Dear friend, I heard tonight by phone of that ghost bubble in your brain. It was not the pearl of balance one fits between lines in a carpenter’s level to make something plumb, but a blip in a membrane that burst so now your fine brain is dead— that city…
War’s hell begins with a parade, high-stepping girls, the flag’s harem, Old Glory on its leash. In a corner of the flag is a token bit of night. We round up the stars, same as the boys. A blood-red flag— blood-blue, blood-white. Reality’s standard must never touch earth. Lining the streets, cheering, we forget how…
Peacock, I have to tell you, your feathers are beautiful. Snake, your length is my life. Mighty elephant, I never forget the corner I came from. Your shell, long-living turtle, is my crown. I preach the laugh of the hyena. Dear horse, thank you for my head of hair. Thank you, sweet ox, for the…
George Garrett, Bad Man Blues, stories and essays: Subtitled A Portable George Garrett, this book of stories, anecdotes, and personal essays shows Garrett at his playful and eloquent best. (SMU)
After I’d filled the crystal vase with water, I thought of your ancient mother, who came once like a witch from a fairy tale to curse our uncertain union, how she stood at my sink and lectured on cutting stems at a slant under water so the blooms would last— this after weeks of…
On Slaughter Beach I lay me down on the sand between surf and calliope, there where oceania meets glitz: plastic mosques and minarets and transvestals, sub- verts, countersexuals—Spanky Sparklenuts, Afterbirth Boy and Crab Apple, Candace the Grimace and She-Who-Eats-Only-Fish. Nighttime it was, brine-sour, my head sunk in shadow. Above, boardwalkers walked—catcalls and titters. Such was…
“I will smash their guitar.” —Joan Miró The force that drives the left-handed guitarist Waking from a dream that again escapes me to play right-handed . . . immortality, frets like the eyes of vermin. No sheep fold, no birth chords and stops, scorings, the music itself lava, breasts, no color…
Sometimes I have to squint to see clear and used to think this a fault of light— God’s failure to beam the intended world bright enough on the brain pan. Now I know it’s age, my own worn optical works that blur leaves to smudge. Justice wears a blindfold, and the firing squad captive…
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