Jennifer Acker's Blog, page 135
April 30, 2018
A Man I Don’t Know
ELIAS FARKOUH
Although this may have been the way things happened at some point, recollecting the exact order in which things take place isn’t easy. Memory blanks are inevitable, and it’s not possible to reconstruct details in their precise sequence. Which is why I took the blow.
Although this may have been the way things happened at some point, recollecting the exact order in which things take place isn’t easy. Memory blanks are inevitable, and it’s not possible to reconstruct details in their precise sequence. Which is why I took the blow.
Wholesale
MACEO J. WHITAKER
In the village, we survey the damage:/ every cedar lockbox smashed,/ every pillow coated with blood, spit, snot. / The houses have crumbled. / We discover /
no envoy, no manual, no code in the clouds. /
Into this scene a man—old Ozymandias, /
in the flesh—staggers down the street.
In the village, we survey the damage:/ every cedar lockbox smashed,/ every pillow coated with blood, spit, snot. / The houses have crumbled. / We discover /
no envoy, no manual, no code in the clouds. /
Into this scene a man—old Ozymandias, /
in the flesh—staggers down the street.
Besmellah
SARAH ELKAMEL
1. They said that hiding in a pomegranate is a grain that opens the gates to heaven.
2. Habayet el-janna or grain of heaven.
3. Are we talking about every pomegranate // why is it hiding // what if it slips // can you tell it is who it is or do you have to wait until yawm el-sa’a or day of the hour to know // only one //
1. They said that hiding in a pomegranate is a grain that opens the gates to heaven.
2. Habayet el-janna or grain of heaven.
3. Are we talking about every pomegranate // why is it hiding // what if it slips // can you tell it is who it is or do you have to wait until yawm el-sa’a or day of the hour to know // only one //
The Village Idiot
MAJIDAH AL-OUTOUM
None of us could talk openly about the Idiot’s family origins, though. Perhaps this was because none of us knew anything about his lineage; but perhaps it was also due to the fact that we were scared, every single one of us, of finding out he was related to us. What if our collective origins were in his?
None of us could talk openly about the Idiot’s family origins, though. Perhaps this was because none of us knew anything about his lineage; but perhaps it was also due to the fact that we were scared, every single one of us, of finding out he was related to us. What if our collective origins were in his?
Guests with A Heavy Presence
JA’FAR AL-OQUAILI
From that point on, I began to feel that I was conjuring, via my notebooks, the spirits of people who weren’t around; not only those who were absent for ordinary reasons of everyday life, but also those who had disappeared, or who were no longer on this physical plane.
From that point on, I began to feel that I was conjuring, via my notebooks, the spirits of people who weren’t around; not only those who were absent for ordinary reasons of everyday life, but also those who had disappeared, or who were no longer on this physical plane.
Stella’s Children Look Out From a Photo Faded Gold
NED BALBO
No matter where you vanished, you’re vanished still./ Astonished, pointing out your childhood face,/ whatever I felt, I know I always will / remember your words: That’s me. The car was full— /
Prop Model T: three boys, two girls, your mother’s trace /
of a cold smile vanishing.
No matter where you vanished, you’re vanished still./ Astonished, pointing out your childhood face,/ whatever I felt, I know I always will / remember your words: That’s me. The car was full— /
Prop Model T: three boys, two girls, your mother’s trace /
of a cold smile vanishing.
Fog Trench
DIANE MEHTA
A sea-gap opens as surf crumbles / onto shifting sediment that pretends to be a beach / but has the bones of 13,000 years; / quartz blades and sea otter pelts, the fur-trade /
driving settlements that would commence /
the New World with its shipyards and apple orchards, /
wheat fields newly immortal in the summer winds /
erupting into lumber, salmon, smelters /
for goldfields.
A sea-gap opens as surf crumbles / onto shifting sediment that pretends to be a beach / but has the bones of 13,000 years; / quartz blades and sea otter pelts, the fur-trade /
driving settlements that would commence /
the New World with its shipyards and apple orchards, /
wheat fields newly immortal in the summer winds /
erupting into lumber, salmon, smelters /
for goldfields.
The Slaves
By GHALIB HALASA
Two men sat near the round threshing floor in the western fields. Each with his rifle on his lap. “What a goddamn year,” Tafish said. He had a skull-like face. Small, sunken, deep-set eyes. Emaciated cheeks with protruding cheekbones. A broad forehead with dark blue veins at the sides. Skin like an aged tortoise.
Two men sat near the round threshing floor in the western fields. Each with his rifle on his lap. “What a goddamn year,” Tafish said. He had a skull-like face. Small, sunken, deep-set eyes. Emaciated cheeks with protruding cheekbones. A broad forehead with dark blue veins at the sides. Skin like an aged tortoise.
Passages
TEOW LIM GOH
Ten miles of concrete can bring you/ to different places. Your feet carry you/ across the ground, let you / into worlds unlike your own. You go places /
you have never been. But what matters /
is not where you have been /
but what you see. What you choose /
to see.
Ten miles of concrete can bring you/ to different places. Your feet carry you/ across the ground, let you / into worlds unlike your own. You go places /
you have never been. But what matters /
is not where you have been /
but what you see. What you choose /
to see.
Scarpia (Aside)
RICARDO PAU-LLOSA
I heard those ripened, muted swoons, although/ that was no kiss—a dagger sunk into my chest./ What use authority if it cannot impose/ a hidden will? The songbird, let her muse /
the painter in his cavern, his mettle at the test, /
while she flickers here for me, beyond sorrow /
and contrition.
I heard those ripened, muted swoons, although/ that was no kiss—a dagger sunk into my chest./ What use authority if it cannot impose/ a hidden will? The songbird, let her muse /
the painter in his cavern, his mettle at the test, /
while she flickers here for me, beyond sorrow /
and contrition.
