Yoko Tawada’s Enchanted World Reed McConnell The Japanese novelist productively unsettles her readers’ expectations.
Excavating the Internet David Schurman Wallace Studying the internet’s pre-history is interesting—but can it help us in the present?
Hard to Be a God Joshua Craze A new history of deification suggests that political power is always mythological.
Yoko Tawada’s Enchanted World Reed McConnell The Japanese novelist productively unsettles her readers’ expectations.
Excavating the Internet David Schurman Wallace Studying the internet’s pre-history is interesting—but can it help us in the present?
Hard to Be a God Joshua Craze A new history of deification suggests that political power is always mythological.
The Right’s Fight for Women Emily Janakiram The anti-abortion movement has effectively appropriated the language of racial justice and progressivism.
The Right’s Fight for Women Emily Janakiram The anti-abortion movement has effectively appropriated the language of racial justice and progressivism.
Hong Kong Literature’s Growing Pains Jaime Chu The city’s Anglophone writers are caught at a crossroads.
Unfocused Feminism Rafia Zakaria The future may well be female. Will prominent white feminists be a part of it?
Hong Kong Literature’s Growing Pains Jaime Chu The city’s Anglophone writers are caught at a crossroads.
Unfocused Feminism Rafia Zakaria The future may well be female. Will prominent white feminists be a part of it?
By the Bomb’s Filmic Light Nicholas Russell How did the threat of nuclear war become little more than a footnote?
Art Is the New Puberty David Leo Rice David Cronenberg's new film is both a return to form and a reckoning with the body in revolt.
Despite All His Cage J.W. McCormack Nicolas Cage’s career is a categorical triumph of style over substance.
By the Bomb’s Filmic Light Nicholas Russell How did the threat of nuclear war become little more than a footnote?
Art Is the New Puberty David Leo Rice David Cronenberg's new film is both a return to form and a reckoning with the body in revolt.
Despite All His Cage J.W. McCormack Nicolas Cage’s career is a categorical triumph of style over substance.
Shirley Hazzard’s Republic of Letters Anthony Domestico For Hazzard, life and literature were warp and weft.
There’s No Such Thing as a Free Market Robin Kaiser-Schatzlein The long and sordid history of an economic fantasy.
Shirley Hazzard’s Republic of Letters Anthony Domestico For Hazzard, life and literature were warp and weft.
There’s No Such Thing as a Free Market Robin Kaiser-Schatzlein The long and sordid history of an economic fantasy.
Not on My Back Forty Jake Bittle Furious citizens are using the levers of local democracy to halt or slow new solar projects.
Not on My Back Forty Jake Bittle Furious citizens are using the levers of local democracy to halt or slow new solar projects.
Editions of You Milo Nesbitt In every dream home a heartache/And every step I take/Takes me further from heaven.
Pieces of the Big Thing Justin Taylor Money is violent and money is sexual. One thing I like about Phish is that they’re neither.
Editions of You Milo Nesbitt In every dream home a heartache/And every step I take/Takes me further from heaven.
Pieces of the Big Thing Justin Taylor Money is violent and money is sexual. One thing I like about Phish is that they’re neither.
Raging for the World That Is Francesca Wade Muriel Rukeyser’s political activities were inextricable from her literary experimentation.
No Days Off Matt Murphy When workplace tracking technologies become less invasive, their use is normalized.
Meeting the Moment in Philadelphia Jess McAllen Grassroots union drives and America’s largest labor federation collide in Philly.
Raging for the World That Is Francesca Wade Muriel Rukeyser’s political activities were inextricable from her literary experimentation.
No Days Off Matt Murphy When workplace tracking technologies become less invasive, their use is normalized.
Meeting the Moment in Philadelphia Jess McAllen Grassroots union drives and America’s largest labor federation collide in Philly.
Untitled Poems III & IV Zakaria Mohammed III. People are asses. I hang bells from their necks so they can sing to me while I recline on a rock. People are fools. I’ll hang them up in the wardrobe like winter clothes. May’s barley is about to ripen. Each stalk has lined up its seeds in orderly fashion so they can stand at the gate of heaven. I can line up words without meaning. I can create meaning from nothingness. I tie a horse near the barley and meaning overflows. Meaning is orderliness. Meaning is coincidence. Meaning is a beast of burden hauling watermelons. If only I could line things up like a stalk of barley does. Barley takes its own life in May, and wheat opens its mute mouth in June. My time is the end of August. At the end of August, my trigger snaps. Oh, if only I could live in a glass of water; my roots white, my hair green, and the sun my only god. I have one song I keep repeating. I have one great lie I’ve attached to the ceiling with tape, so that the flies of truth will stick to it. My head is huge like a balloon. My hand is a destitute star, the knife is a painful simplicity I do not possess, and when I arrive at meaning, it is lost to me. —from Alanda IV. He was crying, so I took his hand to steady him and to wipe away his tears. I told him as sorrow choked me: I promise you that justice will prevail in the end, and that peace will come soon. I was lying to him, of course. I know that justice won’t prevail and peace won’t come soon, but I had to stop his tears. I had this false notion that says, if we can, by some sleight of hand, stop the river of tears, everything would proceed in a reasonable manner. Then, things would be accepted as they are. Cruelty and justice would graze together in the field, god would be satan’s brother, and the victim would be his killer’s beloved. But there is no way to stop the tears. They constantly pour out like a flood and ruin the lying ceremony of peace. And for this, for tears’ bitter obstinance, let the eye be consecrated as the truest saint on the face of the earth. It is not poetry’s job to wipe away tears. Poetry should dig a trench where they can overflow and drown the universe. —from A Date for the Crow Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Two Poems Zakaria Mohammed I. I caught a glimpse of you as I ran. I had no time to stop and kiss your hand. The world was chasing me down like I was a thief and it was impossible for me to stop. If I had stopped I’d have been killed. But I caught a glimpse of you: your hand a stem of narcissus in a glass of water, your mouth unbuttoned, and your hair a soaring bird of prey. I caught a glimpse of you but I had no matches with me to light a bonfire and dance around it. The world was failing me, abandoning me, so I didn’t even wave at you. One day the world will settle down, the crazed cable channels will stop broadcasting, and those that hound me will disperse so I can return to that road, the one where I caught a glimpse of you. I’ll find you in that same chair: your hand a stem of narcissus, your smile a bird of prey, and your heart an apricot blossom. And there, with you, beneath the shade of your apricot, I’ll tear down the tent of my orphanhood and build my home. —from Kushtban II. Night is a generous friend. All things loosen their vines over my head. My beloveds are seated around me as if we were at a celebration. My beloveds who have passed. My beloveds who are here, and beloveds yet to come. And death is a watchdog chained at the gate. Only the Khamaseen wind beats angrily at the door. Khamaseen is a loathsome neighbor; I raise a wall between us, turn out the lights between us. I am happy, singing like a rod of ephedra, crying out like a raptor. Do not believe my words. Don’t reach out to the vines in the darkness. Night is a pact of horrors. Ten birds sleep in the tree, but one anxiously circles over the house. And as you know, one bird suffices to destroy an entire celebration, one match to burn down a civilization. The meal was cold. I rinsed my mouth out afterwards with Khamaseen, and washed my hands with lichen. If there was any use in weeping I would have wept before you all. But weeping requires more energy than we possess, so I will sing for you like tender Saba wind, I’ll sing in the vernacular of a young basil stem: night is a stone of amber. Night is a pact of marvels. —from Alanda (Ephedra) Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Exam Sheikha Hlewa My mother’s lessons are too late.After all we’ve lived through—the years she countsin precise concurrence with the Nakbaand the ones I count while I bite my tongue—she insists on lecturing me, word by word, all at once.She shows no consideration for my chronic distractionnor for the chasm of years between us,the urbanity that tamed the nomad in meand glossed the margins of my language.She repeats lessons with the crueltyof a teacher whose retirement has been delayed.She searches for her stick under her arms,cannot find it,so she pounds on the wooden deskTo hell with any man who makes you cry, you understand?and there’s no bell to rescue mebefore the exam. —Haifa Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Pressure and Escape Mark Muhannad Ayyash In Palestine, nature and poetry offer a respite from constant pressure.
Mahmoud Maya Abu Al-Hayyat Mahmoud could have been our son.I’d have objected to the nameand, for family reasons, you’d have insisted on it.We could have bought him a crib with a blue quiltand hung spinning musical animalsto coax him to sleep,could have stayed up all night for his first tooth,experimenting with various formulasbecause my breasts couldn’t produce enough milkfor his voracious appetite.And with a new Nikon camera,we could have captured his first step.And his verbal skills would have wiped the floorwith your niece’s skills, of course.We could have disagreed over his elementary school:nothing wrong with public education, you’d have said,and I’d have demanded a private one.You’d have turned your face toward meas you counted our few remaining dollarsto my wailing about balancing the budget.We would have been happy,his first school bag in one hand,his other hand waving to the neighbor’s girlbefore waving to us.His teacher would’ve complainedas teachers are wont to do,and we’d have called her names for her blindnessto the genius of our only son. Yes,we would have bought him a battery-operated car,built him a paper plane that doesn’t fly,maintained his teeth white,flipped his collar for coolness,and he’d have loved me more than youbecause of issues beyond my grasp:your jealousy would’ve grown mysterious.And when his voice changed he’d hate us bothand love the neighbor’s girl more.Rumination would have haunted usfor hours at night. Our whispersadvising us to be patient, let go, observefrom a distance. Then you’d have lost your witsover his first cigarette, the hidden packin the laundry room, but his tremulous voicewould prevent you from slapping himwith an open palm. You’d have forgiven him,you’re kind like that. He’d only smoked in secret.But the first rock he’d have thrownat soldiers at the checkpoint,to raise his heroic stock in Manal’s eyes,would have declared war in our house:biting followed by flying slippers.Nightly debates wouldn’t have helped usto core solutions. I’d have to carry himbetween my teeth, fly himfrom one neighborhood to another to shield him.But he’d run away.That would be who he’d always been.A misguided kid who saps the heart and soul,that’s who he was. Still youwere martyred eight yearsbefore he was born, and he was martyredeight years after you were gone. —Jerusalem Read more from our series by Palestinian poets. From You Can Be the Last Leaf by Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, translated by Fady Joudah (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2022). Copyright © 2022 by Fady Joudah. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions.
Untitled Poems III & IV Zakaria Mohammed III. People are asses. I hang bells from their necks so they can sing to me while I recline on a rock. People are fools. I’ll hang them up in the wardrobe like winter clothes. May’s barley is about to ripen. Each stalk has lined up its seeds in orderly fashion so they can stand at the gate of heaven. I can line up words without meaning. I can create meaning from nothingness. I tie a horse near the barley and meaning overflows. Meaning is orderliness. Meaning is coincidence. Meaning is a beast of burden hauling watermelons. If only I could line things up like a stalk of barley does. Barley takes its own life in May, and wheat opens its mute mouth in June. My time is the end of August. At the end of August, my trigger snaps. Oh, if only I could live in a glass of water; my roots white, my hair green, and the sun my only god. I have one song I keep repeating. I have one great lie I’ve attached to the ceiling with tape, so that the flies of truth will stick to it. My head is huge like a balloon. My hand is a destitute star, the knife is a painful simplicity I do not possess, and when I arrive at meaning, it is lost to me. —from Alanda IV. He was crying, so I took his hand to steady him and to wipe away his tears. I told him as sorrow choked me: I promise you that justice will prevail in the end, and that peace will come soon. I was lying to him, of course. I know that justice won’t prevail and peace won’t come soon, but I had to stop his tears. I had this false notion that says, if we can, by some sleight of hand, stop the river of tears, everything would proceed in a reasonable manner. Then, things would be accepted as they are. Cruelty and justice would graze together in the field, god would be satan’s brother, and the victim would be his killer’s beloved. But there is no way to stop the tears. They constantly pour out like a flood and ruin the lying ceremony of peace. And for this, for tears’ bitter obstinance, let the eye be consecrated as the truest saint on the face of the earth. It is not poetry’s job to wipe away tears. Poetry should dig a trench where they can overflow and drown the universe. —from A Date for the Crow Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Two Poems Zakaria Mohammed I. I caught a glimpse of you as I ran. I had no time to stop and kiss your hand. The world was chasing me down like I was a thief and it was impossible for me to stop. If I had stopped I’d have been killed. But I caught a glimpse of you: your hand a stem of narcissus in a glass of water, your mouth unbuttoned, and your hair a soaring bird of prey. I caught a glimpse of you but I had no matches with me to light a bonfire and dance around it. The world was failing me, abandoning me, so I didn’t even wave at you. One day the world will settle down, the crazed cable channels will stop broadcasting, and those that hound me will disperse so I can return to that road, the one where I caught a glimpse of you. I’ll find you in that same chair: your hand a stem of narcissus, your smile a bird of prey, and your heart an apricot blossom. And there, with you, beneath the shade of your apricot, I’ll tear down the tent of my orphanhood and build my home. —from Kushtban II. Night is a generous friend. All things loosen their vines over my head. My beloveds are seated around me as if we were at a celebration. My beloveds who have passed. My beloveds who are here, and beloveds yet to come. And death is a watchdog chained at the gate. Only the Khamaseen wind beats angrily at the door. Khamaseen is a loathsome neighbor; I raise a wall between us, turn out the lights between us. I am happy, singing like a rod of ephedra, crying out like a raptor. Do not believe my words. Don’t reach out to the vines in the darkness. Night is a pact of horrors. Ten birds sleep in the tree, but one anxiously circles over the house. And as you know, one bird suffices to destroy an entire celebration, one match to burn down a civilization. The meal was cold. I rinsed my mouth out afterwards with Khamaseen, and washed my hands with lichen. If there was any use in weeping I would have wept before you all. But weeping requires more energy than we possess, so I will sing for you like tender Saba wind, I’ll sing in the vernacular of a young basil stem: night is a stone of amber. Night is a pact of marvels. —from Alanda (Ephedra) Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Exam Sheikha Hlewa My mother’s lessons are too late.After all we’ve lived through—the years she countsin precise concurrence with the Nakbaand the ones I count while I bite my tongue—she insists on lecturing me, word by word, all at once.She shows no consideration for my chronic distractionnor for the chasm of years between us,the urbanity that tamed the nomad in meand glossed the margins of my language.She repeats lessons with the crueltyof a teacher whose retirement has been delayed.She searches for her stick under her arms,cannot find it,so she pounds on the wooden deskTo hell with any man who makes you cry, you understand?and there’s no bell to rescue mebefore the exam. —Haifa Read more from our series by Palestinian poets.
Pressure and Escape Mark Muhannad Ayyash In Palestine, nature and poetry offer a respite from constant pressure.
Mahmoud Maya Abu Al-Hayyat Mahmoud could have been our son.I’d have objected to the nameand, for family reasons, you’d have insisted on it.We could have bought him a crib with a blue quiltand hung spinning musical animalsto coax him to sleep,could have stayed up all night for his first tooth,experimenting with various formulasbecause my breasts couldn’t produce enough milkfor his voracious appetite.And with a new Nikon camera,we could have captured his first step.And his verbal skills would have wiped the floorwith your niece’s skills, of course.We could have disagreed over his elementary school:nothing wrong with public education, you’d have said,and I’d have demanded a private one.You’d have turned your face toward meas you counted our few remaining dollarsto my wailing about balancing the budget.We would have been happy,his first school bag in one hand,his other hand waving to the neighbor’s girlbefore waving to us.His teacher would’ve complainedas teachers are wont to do,and we’d have called her names for her blindnessto the genius of our only son. Yes,we would have bought him a battery-operated car,built him a paper plane that doesn’t fly,maintained his teeth white,flipped his collar for coolness,and he’d have loved me more than youbecause of issues beyond my grasp:your jealousy would’ve grown mysterious.And when his voice changed he’d hate us bothand love the neighbor’s girl more.Rumination would have haunted usfor hours at night. Our whispersadvising us to be patient, let go, observefrom a distance. Then you’d have lost your witsover his first cigarette, the hidden packin the laundry room, but his tremulous voicewould prevent you from slapping himwith an open palm. You’d have forgiven him,you’re kind like that. He’d only smoked in secret.But the first rock he’d have thrownat soldiers at the checkpoint,to raise his heroic stock in Manal’s eyes,would have declared war in our house:biting followed by flying slippers.Nightly debates wouldn’t have helped usto core solutions. I’d have to carry himbetween my teeth, fly himfrom one neighborhood to another to shield him.But he’d run away.That would be who he’d always been.A misguided kid who saps the heart and soul,that’s who he was. Still youwere martyred eight yearsbefore he was born, and he was martyredeight years after you were gone. —Jerusalem Read more from our series by Palestinian poets. From You Can Be the Last Leaf by Maya Abu Al-Hayyat, translated by Fady Joudah (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2022). Copyright © 2022 by Fady Joudah. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions.
For God or the Moroccan Boy? Jacob Israël de Haan Jacob Israël de Haan explored the intersection of queer desire and spiritual belief.
For God or the Moroccan Boy? Jacob Israël de Haan Jacob Israël de Haan explored the intersection of queer desire and spiritual belief.
To Name It Now Vi Khi Nao Theresa Hak Kyung Cha wielded her experimental body against marginalization.
To Name It Now Vi Khi Nao Theresa Hak Kyung Cha wielded her experimental body against marginalization.
Strangers in Their Own Land Makepeace Sitlhou Assam’s Bengali-origin Muslims face disenfranchisement and indignity.
The Belligerent Daniel Luban Angelo Codevilla: emblematic intellectual of the twenty-first-century American right?
Strangers in Their Own Land Makepeace Sitlhou Assam’s Bengali-origin Muslims face disenfranchisement and indignity.
The Belligerent Daniel Luban Angelo Codevilla: emblematic intellectual of the twenty-first-century American right?
Everything’s Great When You’re Downtown Nicholas Russell The short afterlife of Tony Hsieh’s Las Vegas.
Everything’s Great When You’re Downtown Nicholas Russell The short afterlife of Tony Hsieh’s Las Vegas.
