Essay
By Diana Arterian
If you haven't begged for a kernel of time-earned wisdom while wet and half-naked, you haven’t lived.
By Cyrus Cassells
An imaginary conversation with Federico García Lorca.
Poem
From the magazine:To His Mother, Whose Name Was Maria
By Attilio Bertolucci
Translated By Cyrus Cassells
Invoked every sundown, it’s you, painted on clouds
rouging our treasured plain and all who walk it,
with leaf-fresh kids and women damp from traveling,
city-bound, in the radiance of a just-stopped shower;
it’s you, mother eternally young, courtesy of death’s
plucking hand, rose at...
rouging our treasured plain and all who walk it,
with leaf-fresh kids and women damp from traveling,
city-bound, in the radiance of a just-stopped shower;
it’s you, mother eternally young, courtesy of death’s
plucking hand, rose at...
Poem
From the magazine:To Jorge Luis Borges
By Sarina Romero
Jorge, no matter where we go together
there is always a great national myth bearing down.
The one I come from claims three thousand years
of history. The government funds artists to prove this.
It’s why there’s an official stamp on Carlos Fuentes’s
first novel,...
there is always a great national myth bearing down.
The one I come from claims three thousand years
of history. The government funds artists to prove this.
It’s why there’s an official stamp on Carlos Fuentes’s
first novel,...
Poem of the day
At fourteen I wanted to devour you,
the twang, the strut, the perfect proletarian
butt in the black pants of you. I wanted a man...
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That’s what poetry is: a wind, a leaf of grass that ties time and space together.
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