Writing, Poetry Andrew Schelling Writing, Poetry Andrew Schelling

Gravel, Cheesebox, Hideout

Darksome, tenebrous, smoked, obscure / the gloam-time, sable-vested, fumid / hour of the witch / the gathering of storms / she wrote poems good as anyone’s / becloud, bedim, mirksome, engloom / when the moon’s dark / caliginous, somber / it’s a blind man’s holiday / eclipsed / embalmed

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Poetry, Writing Forough Farrokhzad Poetry, Writing Forough Farrokhzad

Three Poems

Farrokhzad speaks as a form hewn to the "line of time," trapped in the earthly realm — her sorrowful longing is one of disillusionment given the unrealizability of divine ecstasy.

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Prose, Fiction, Writing Scott McCulloch Prose, Fiction, Writing Scott McCulloch

Myrto or The Lemon Farm

Passing wounds in different studies of light, scabbed on the vast walls of daughters, the world spins inside itself, as a liquid over the plains, over Holy Lands and sacrificial slabs, over citrus peel and sumac-stained hands, over raised sardine fishing boats built with the nails that crucify father to son.

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Art, Writing Francisco Segovia Art, Writing Francisco Segovia

Forest

Seven poems by Francisco Segovia translated by Katherine Silver, with artwork by Carolie Parker.

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Writing, Prose Irakli Qolbaia Writing, Prose Irakli Qolbaia

Soulmaking and Judgment: An Esquisse

A fairground fun, a circus troupe in the moments of repose on the dusty road from one town to the next – clowns and jugglers, carnies and freaks. What we are given to read is a pastime from one show to another. What happens on the margins, in the backrooms, during the show? In the Footnotes?... Well, you know what happens. We do.

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The Vollard Suite

“You see this truculent character here, with the curly hair and mustache?” Picasso asked about the Vollard Suite, “That’s Rembrandt. Or maybe it’s Balzac; I’m not sure. It’s a compromise, I suppose. It doesn’t really matter. They’re only two of the people to haunt me. Every human being is a whole colony.”

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Poetry, Writing, Translation Ahmad Shamlou Poetry, Writing, Translation Ahmad Shamlou

Genesis

And on the fourth midnight the new bride slumbered on the stretch of grass * And in the same breath, I was in the newly sprouted leaves * or in the fluttering breeze * and perhaps even in the deep waters * And the breath of the wind stirring little blossoms on the thick tree wailed in me * and bright streams of rain wept in me. *

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