Not since Ed Dorn have we had such scathing satire on the state of the arts, and not since Alexander Pope, I don’t think, have we had someone willing to take on the establishment with such vigor — and in rhymed couplets, yet!

Johnson’s work is distinguishable for its international breadth and for its pugilism.

He listens to the life inside life for the life outside life.

He has a cause and he has devoted himself to it. I can’t say God bless him but I can say Poets bless him.

“It sucks being a famous poet. / All your time gets taken up on / the phone or in answering emails / from people looking for a blurb, / and stuff. It’s totally tiresome!”

Echoes from so many sources, augmenting frequencies, ostensibly bitching about insufficient personal rewards — but more fundamentally, questioning the Peter Principle that underlies curatorial commodification.

with paintings by Varda Caivano

Selections from Invisible by Jacek Gutorow, translated from the Polish by Piotr Florczyk.

Fagan’s poems ask us what kind of attention we pay to the world and if that attention pays off, whether or not the world pays us back with a measure of truth.

… the most important episode in the history of Nicaraguan poetry was the formation of the Vanguardia group, one of the last of the interwar avant-gardes and the only one to emerge in Central America.

Four prose pieces by Dan Elkind.

These poems happen in the depths revealed when the minima of existence, non-existence, desire, and emptiness are viewed with unwavering intensity, without the distraction of pre-given narratives or ready-made emotions.

In Julia’s imaginative oasis, discarded objects and the subjects of myth all speak for themselves, humbly voicing their pains, pleasures, and desires.

“He is our Cavafy, completely unknown. Out of time. All of these things are exceptionally old — the sketch, and the tavern, and the darkening afternoon.”

This World Must Be Destroyed: A Selection of Poems by Farhad Pirbal translated from the Kurdish (Sorani) by Pshtewan Kamal Babakir and David Shook.

Last night, she says, I woke up twice, once to my body lying in bed and once to grasses and trees in the field outside my uncle’s trailer in the mountains where we spent summer weekends in the silence of thin air at tree-line, fishing and wandering and planning the lives we would live someday and the lives we were trying to redefine back in the city.