On my longest walk I saw the coast’s down-slant three times repeated: in the eaten-under limestone across the channel; the color of hidden candlelight under the chateau, des Lombards; then red in the huge cape — each layer as if wanting to slip undersea, and then another above, the pressure, and the last exploding in…
(Chapter Seven begins with the return of a white sixth grade girl named Mary to her school on the edge of Harlem, after a Christmas marred by fighting between her father and stepmother. During her first months at the school Mary's own withdrawnness, her race, and an episode in which she "ratted" on other children,…
Nothing is and nothing in itself is a mountain. I know nothing except certain brief anecdotes: The wall has bricks. The Navy has cigarettes. The wide world is an old horizon. The chair is flat and without boundaries. There is no reason to call it a chair. But we do, and you know it is…
Ulysses’ shadow dancing with a herd of monsters, winding its paleo-way through corridors half-shed of horse and ibex It winds into a tower Gaudi dreamed children blowing like sky-blue fluff across the roof of a world without straight line or right angle So that the wily meanderer still lives even if in Catholic drag —…
Nothing like 10 in the morning for making love — cats glaring from the table opposite, the dog watching gloomily from the rug, and after, opening cans of their food, you in the shower singing while elevators ring up through the sidewalk, carrying their racks of dresses, the noises of ordinary business: unloading, loading. Later,…
MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor for This Issue James Randall Associate Editor for This Issue Richard Tillinghast Managing Editor Joyce Peseroff CONTRIBUTORS ALEXANDER ALBERTUS, who lives in Mill Valley, California, is translating a selection of poems by the Norwegian poet, Inger Hagerup. The poems in this issue represent his first publication in…
Something is cooking with no containing wall something vague to the point of being a lesion peering blindingly from a wall in which it is weightless, without size, in need of a caustic restless shoulder that seems to be rowing, translating one-way forever deeper Perched there, Bernifal rides back and forth warbling at times into…
On my left arm a fat bruise The size of a water bug; Though not so fleet — This one will linger for weeks, Patient, glowering; Look — Jupiter’s wild, shifting face: Swift eddies, rotating iridescence, At the center a red hot Eye (don’t touch!) Round which black winds whirl. Strange fertile beauty, So at…
In a dream to wander to some place where may be heard the complaints of all the miserable on earth. Hawthorne, The American Notebooks 1. To the Poets Let let let let be to the poets praise,…
No products in the cart.