Rune Christiansen

Rune Christiansen

I take my leave of mother, she gives me / a key, but there is / no key, only her hand stretching out / and the goodbye

Dean Charpentier

Dean Charpentier

I read something— / an idea worth noting, / and when I dog-eared the / page it bent easily / along the memory / of the previous crease, / someone else’s moment of / clarity

Tereza Riedlbauchová

Tereza Riedlbauchová

And in the end we are happy only when everything pauses,
and the fullness of the world fits
into the flutter of a curtain in wind
               

Bryan D. Price

Bryan D. Price

You say utterance is when word becomes law, is held or holds itself in the air like an accident of heaven.

In Memoriam: Ásgeir H. Ingólfsson

In Memoriam: Ásgeir H. Ingólfsson

Ásgeir H. Ingólfsson, an Icelandic poet who became my friend here in Prague, had a voice that carried a quiet warmth, always drawing listeners in.

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Diána Vonnák

Horror stares back at me surreptitiously from every corner of the flat with wide-open cats’ eyes. The reflexes I had of old have become alien to me. They tempt me to provoke her, but thankfully I’m still paralysed and the only way I can wind her up is by staring at her neck.

Iulia David

He wishes he could experience the transition to evening / less like a hungry moth flapping its dust towards the magnetic / pools of light, more like a rare edition in the hands of tiny / librarians

Amy Madson

No one knows how much the silverware drawer matters. It rattles in Leah’s mind if it’s left unorganized. She checks it often.

Gerald Mangan

Dear Bill: I’m sorry to hear you’re dead. / You hated the fig-leaf euphemisms / Of pulpit-jockeys who peddle heavens, / So you’d like me calling this spade a spade: // I died a bit myself, when I heard.

Liam L. Zatarain

From a very young age my star stopped shining. / And among the many battles between life and death, / I discovered, I think by chance, the meaning of life.

Brian Johnson

I dreamt kindness to animals was widespread, / Their demand on our powers greater and still greater. // If a rope broke, we released the herd. / If a drop of rain fell, we unveiled a flock of birds.

Rune Christiansen

I take my leave of mother, she gives me / a key, but there is / no key, only her hand stretching out / and

Dean Charpentier

I read something— / an idea worth noting, / and when I dog-eared the / page it bent easily / along the memory / of

Tereza Riedlbauchova

Tereza Riedlbauchová

And in the end we are happy only when everything pauses,
and the fullness of the world fits
into the flutter of a curtain in

Bryan D. Price

You say utterance is when word becomes law, is held or holds itself in the air like an accident of heaven.

Wendy Wisner

When I told my mother she has dementia, / she said that of course she’d get dementia / because her mom had Alzheimer’s but //

Vaishnavi Pusapati

there is no time for tears, there never is; / no time for breathing deep. / A fit of sadness is like pulling a door

Amy Madson

No one knows how much the silverware drawer matters. It rattles in Leah’s mind if it’s left unorganized. She checks it often.

Katarína Kucbelová

He didn’t recognize me, or else pretended not to see me. A neighbour who doesn’t say hello. I’m a neighbour who is see-through, perhaps completely invisible, not

Nia Crawford

My sister bought me a “Sucka Free” hoodie in the ‘80s when Yo! MTV Raps was hot. I wore that shirt till the hole under

John Frame

Geoffrey pulls his hand from his pocket and withdraws the four-inch handle of a switchblade knife. Jason’s face turns ghostly. The American yells and runs

Diána Vonnák

Horror stares back at me surreptitiously from every corner of the flat with wide-open cats’ eyes. The reflexes I had of old have become alien

John Oliver Hodges

He is not our first dead tourist. We have had copter incidents, people cutting legs on ice, avalanche victims. One lady fell down a mine

In Memoriam: Philip Levine

  IT’S NOT A POEM   Phil Levine died on Saturday. While the newspaper obituaries discussed his position as a “poet of the common man,”

Paul Hostovsky: Pitching for the Apostates | Book Review

Hostovsky’s fondness for words and keen ear for spoken language benefit his writing: he can record and create dialogue in a brilliant and natural way. In this respect, he has more in common with short-story writers than with most contemporary poets, who tend to avoid direct speech.

Books in Brief

Eight recent volumes of poetry, prose, and photography, reviewed by our editors

Interview with Artist Scott Kiernan

B O D Y interviews Scott Kiernan, a New York-based artist whose video, photo and installation works interact in ways that address their own materiality and means of distribution.

Interview with Artist Anna Hawkins

Anna Hawkins is an artist who works primarily in moving image and installation with an interest in the ways that images, gestures and language are circulated and transformed online and the impacts of technology on the intimate spheres of daily life.

Interview with Artist Johanna Strobel

Weaving together disparate references spanning across histories and geographies, German interdisciplinary artist Johanna Strobel explores the entanglement between philosophy, semiotics, and actuality.

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