World/International

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To start, let us thank Nachoem Wijnberg for doing something rare in poetry. He admits openly what all poets know of themselves: that they are talentless, and their success unearned.

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The other day a new video emerged from Ukraine of shelling in an apartment project—reporters and grandmothers dash for cover as large, pressure-sucking booms roar through the cement canyon of the c

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“the kind of poetry that can make a reader wince with delight.”

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In her 11th poetry collection, Bestiary Dark, Marianne Boruch goes back to Pliny the Elder, who asked, “The world, is it finite?” The answer is both no and yes.

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Few men are as dead as Osip Mandelstam.

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“. . . revelatory, a testament to Di Donato’s ability to deconstruct the complex weavings and machinations of the human heart.”

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Have you ever wondered why books of poetry, unless they span the whole of a writer’s life and work, are so slim?