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		<title>Thanksgiving by Jon Loomis via The Gettysburg Review</title>
		<link>https://litragger.com/poetry/thanksgiving-by-jon-loomis-via-the-gettysburg-review/</link>
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		<pubDate>Wed, 25 Nov 2015 14:29:16 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[LitRagger]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Gettysburg Review]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Jon Loomis]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[University of Wisconsin]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Thanksgiving Tonight we celebrate the Great Mistake of the Wampanoag, who should have gutted the Puritan freaks or let them starve, not that killing would have stopped the invasion or even slowed it down, much&#8212;ship after reeking ship, crammed with smug entrepreneurs, their smallpox, their stern and stingy God. There are times when the future<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/thanksgiving-by-jon-loomis-via-the-gettysburg-review/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Thanksgiving</strong></p>
<div class="poem">Tonight we celebrate the Great Mistake of the Wampanoag,<br />
who should have gutted the Puritan freaks or let them starve,</p>
<p>not that killing would have stopped the invasion or even<br />
slowed it down, much&#8212;ship after reeking ship, crammed</p>
<p>with smug entrepreneurs, their smallpox, their stern<br />
and stingy God. There are times when the future lies open</p>
<p>before us, plain as a roadmap: this is what&#8217;s next,<br />
and then this. It wasn&#8217;t one of those times.</p>
<p>Which of the Wampanoag farmers could have imagined<br />
extinction? The swift and total erasure of all that they knew?</p>
<p>Tonight, the table set, crystal gleam and china gleam,<br />
the candles&#8217; wavering light. Wine glasses full, the turkey</p>
<p>crouched and steaming on its platter, around the table we go:<br />
we&#8217;re thankful, we say, for these beautiful children,</p>
<p>this glorious feast that took all day to prepare,<br />
for Grandma&#8217;s good health, for good friends</p>
<p>and warm houses. &#8220;For the dog,&#8221; Ava says, and we laugh.<br />
And when it&#8217;s my turn, I say, &#8220;Everything&#8212;</p>
<p>all&#8212;I&#8217;m greatful for all that I love.&#8221; We eat then, and nobody<br />
mentions the shadow. I&#8217;m grateful for this, too&#8212;the mercy</p>
<p>of doomed tribes, of blind hope. How we still sit down<br />
to a good meal, disaster&#8217;s white sails just past the horizon.</p>
</div>
<p>&nbsp;<br />
<em>&#8220;Thanksgiving&#8221; originally appeared in <strong>The Gettysburg Review</strong> and has been reprinted here with permission of the author.</em><br />
&nbsp;<br />
<a href="/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/unnamed1.jpg"><img class="alignleft  wp-image-16501" src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/unnamed1-150x150.jpg" alt="Thanksgiving poem by jon loomis" width="109" height="109" /></a><em>Jon Loomis is the author of three poetry collections: <strong>Vanitas Motel</strong> (1998), <strong>The Pleasure Principle</strong> (2001), and <strong>The Mansion of Happiness</strong> (forthcoming in 2016), all from Oberlin College Press. He’s also the author of the Frank Coffin mystery series, set in Provincetown, MA. He teaches creative writing at the University of Wisconsin, Eau Claire.</em><br />
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<a href="http://www.oberlin.edu/ocpress/Books/Loomis_Pleasure.htm" class="sc-button sc-button-default"><span>Get Jon&#8217;s Book</span></a>
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		<title>The Unthinkable Botanical Gardens by Travis Smith via Crazyhorse</title>
		<link>https://litragger.com/poetry/the-unthinkable-botanical-gardens/</link>
		<comments>https://litragger.com/poetry/the-unthinkable-botanical-gardens/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 30 Oct 2015 14:54:45 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[LitRagger]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[crazyhorse]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[travis smith]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[The Unthinkable Botanical Gardens Nature is just one disaster after another: flowering quince, then lemon balm, then purple ruffled basil. Past the bamboo grove, past the mammoth sunflowers, I wandered in a controlled manner. I didn’t want to become a victim. That’s what the giant sign on the garden gate said: DON’T BECOME A VICTIM!<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/the-unthinkable-botanical-gardens/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>The Unthinkable Botanical Gardens</strong></p>
<div class="poem">Nature is just one<br />
disaster after another: flowering</p>
<p>quince, then lemon balm, then<br />
purple ruffled basil. Past the bamboo</p>
<p>grove, past the mammoth<br />
sunflowers, I wandered</p>
<p>in a controlled manner.<br />
I didn’t want to become</p>
<p>a victim. That’s what the giant sign<br />
on the garden gate said: DON’T BECOME</p>
<p>A VICTIM! SOME OF THE VICTIMS<br />
MAY ACTUALLY BE SUSPECTS.</p>
<p>I didn’t want to become a suspect.<br />
I didn’t want to become a Japanese</p>
<p>apricot or columbine<br />
or camellia or aster— merely</p>
<p>to observe, from the path,<br />
their intoxicating exteriors,</p>
<p>all the trellises bugged.<br />
The reflecting pools monitored.</p>
<p>More signs warned me:<br />
DO NOT PROPAGATE INVASIVES!</p>
<p>HELP US KEEP OUT EXOTIC WEEDS!<br />
and I wanted to help, so I kept on checking</p>
<p>the bottoms of my shoes, kept inspecting my bag<br />
in case seeds of torpedo grass</p>
<p>or chamber bitter had tried<br />
to sneak in with me.</p>
<p>I wanted to help, but then<br />
I felt the terraced ferns loom down,</p>
<p>I felt the blooming myrtles stare,<br />
seeing me for the invasive that I was,</p>
<p>but it was already too late:<br />
the buds and suckers and spores</p>
<p>were thronging me already,<br />
in my blood and my breath,</p>
<p>had thronged me from the start,<br />
and I was naked in the garden,</p>
<p>the unthinkable had happened,<br />
and every stowaway in me was free.</p></div>
<p>&nbsp;<br />
&nbsp;<br />
<em>&#8220;The Unthinkable Botanical Gardens&#8221; originally appeared in <strong>Crazyhorse</strong> and has been reprinted here with permission of the author.</em></p>
<p><img src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/unnamed-150x150.jpg" alt="travis oliver poetry" width="150" height="150" class="alignleft size-thumbnail wp-image-16493" /><em>Travis Smith lives in Durham, NC and works as a bookseller. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in <strong>Little Star</strong>, <strong>Parcel</strong>, <strong>Redivider</strong>, <strong>The Collagist</strong>, and other journals. He was a Grisham Fellow in the University of Mississippi&#8217;s MFA program and can be found on Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/travis_oliver">@travis_oliver</a></em><br />
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		<title>Love Letter to Nike Alighting on a Warship by Corey Van Landingham via Kenyon Review</title>
		<link>https://litragger.com/poetry/love-letter-to-nike-alighting-on-a-warship-by-corey-vanlandingham-via-kenyon-review/</link>
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		<pubDate>Thu, 15 Oct 2015 21:23:24 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[LitRagger]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[corey van landingham]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[kenyon review]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Purdue University]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Redux]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Stegner]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Love Letter to Nike Alighting on a Warship I could not know how like the drone you would become, standing below your grandeur, in 2008, at the Louvre. Eyeless, mouthless—Good Girl! Broken Goddess! You were already, were still, the woman commemorating a man’s war. All breast to mark man’s arête, Hellenistic in a fierce headwind,<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/love-letter-to-nike-alighting-on-a-warship-by-corey-vanlandingham-via-kenyon-review/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Love Letter to Nike Alighting on a Warship</strong></p>
<div class="poem">I could not know how like the drone you would become,<br />
standing below your grandeur, in 2008, at the Louvre.</p>
<p>Eyeless, mouthless—Good Girl! Broken Goddess!<br />
You were already, were still, the woman commemorating</p>
<p>a man’s war. All breast to mark man’s arête, Hellenistic<br />
in a fierce headwind, drama and theatre. You, sentinel,</p>
<p>see all. Here, wrote Rilke, there is no place that does not<br />
see you. Funny how Apollo, god of truth and light,</p>
<p>becomes your brother without a head. Poetry and war<br />
speechless. The world—Dickinson in a letter—is sleeping</p>
<p>in ignorance and error. At night, now, the unmanned machines<br />
still have to, somewhere, touch down. Grounded,</p>
<p>men stroke them with their own hands. Stand back, a docent<br />
warned me then. You’re getting, he said, too close to her.</p></div>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><em>Love Letter to Nike Alighting on a Warship originally appeared in <strong>The Kenyon Review</strong> and has been reprinted here with permission of the author.</em><br />
&nbsp;<br />
<em><img class="alignleft  wp-image-16422" src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/52135b_9da701ce90a9419f9abb99bf505d89ec.jpg_srz_p_367_310_75_22_0.50_1.20_0-150x150.jpg" alt="coreyvanlandingham-poetry" width="124" height="124" />Corey Van Landingham is the author of <strong>Antidote</strong>, winner of the 2012 Ohio State University Press/<strong>The Journal</strong> Award in Poetry. She is the recipient of an AWP Intro Journals Award, as well as multiple scholarships from the Bread Loaf Writers&#8217; Conference. A former Wallace Stegner Poetry Fellow at Stanford University, her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in <strong>The Best American Poetry 2014</strong>, <strong>Best New Poets 2012</strong>, <strong>Boston Review</strong>, <strong>Kenyon Review</strong>, <strong>The Southern Review</strong>, and elsewhere. She is currently the 2015-2016 Emerging Writer Lecturer at Gettysburg College.</em><br />
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		<title>Adoration by Luisa Muradyan via West Branch</title>
		<link>https://litragger.com/poetry/adoration-by-luisa-muradyan-via-west-branch/</link>
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		<pubDate>Thu, 10 Sep 2015 17:16:50 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[LitRagger]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Luisa Muradyan]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Redux]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[University of Houston]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[west branch]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Adoration Svetlana was named Svetlana because she adored the light and when I say adore I mean truly the word adoration because we’ve lost what it means to be truly devoted to something. We say we love our families or our countries or our ideas but I know a man who fell in love with<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/adoration-by-luisa-muradyan-via-west-branch/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Adoration</strong></p>
<div class="poem">Svetlana was named Svetlana because she adored the light<br />
and when I say adore<br />
I mean truly the word adoration<br />
because we’ve lost what it means to be truly devoted<br />
to something. We say we love our families<br />
or our countries or our ideas<br />
but I know a man who fell<br />
in love with a little purple plum<br />
he carried her in his pocket<br />
he knew everything about that plum<br />
and you might say but what is there to know<br />
about a piece of fruit? And that&#8217;s why you can’t fall in love<br />
that&#8217;s why the light has become just another reflection of our own sensibility<br />
and you rip plums wide open and toss the beating hearts.</div>
<p>&nbsp;<br />
&nbsp;<br />
<em>&#8220;Adoration&#8221; originally appeared in <strong>West Branch</strong> and has been reprinted with permission of the author.</em><br />
<div class='ig_shortcode_container' id='icegram_shortcode_0'  data-campaigns="16458"   ></div>
<em><a href="/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/luisamuradyan.jpg"><img class="alignleft  wp-image-16315" src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/luisamuradyan-150x150.jpg" alt="luisamuradyan" width="93" height="93" /></a>Originally from the Ukraine, Luisa Muradyan is currently a PhD student at the University of Houston, where she is an Editor at Gulf Coast. Her previous work has appeared or is forthcoming in<strong> Blackbird</strong>, <strong>West Branch</strong>,<strong> Ninth Letter</strong>, and <strong>PANK</strong> among others.</em><br />
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		<title>Attention All Students by Jeannie Vanasco via Little Star Journal</title>
		<link>https://litragger.com/poetry/attention-all-students-by-jeannie-vanasco-via-little-star-journal/</link>
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		<pubDate>Thu, 03 Sep 2015 14:40:59 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[LitRagger]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Jeannie Vanasco]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Little Star Journal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[new york university]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Redux]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Attention All Students The bugle trumpeting war is not the lunch bell. The beast sharpening his hooves in the science wing is the new mascot. Anxiety is not an excuse for truancy. The test about democracy has been postponed. If you witness the enemy in the swimming pool, inform your assistant principal at once. This<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/attention-all-students-by-jeannie-vanasco-via-little-star-journal/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Attention All Students</strong></p>
<div class="poem">The bugle trumpeting war is not the lunch bell.</p>
<p>The beast sharpening his hooves in the science wing is the new mascot.</p>
<p>Anxiety is not an excuse for truancy.</p>
<p>The test about democracy has been postponed.</p>
<p>If you witness the enemy in the swimming pool, inform your assistant principal at once.</p>
<p>This week field trips to the fallout shelters have been canceled.</p>
<p>Do not disturb the music teachers dying on the football field; their fear is contagious.</p>
<p>All wills without a name will be marked incomplete.</p>
<p>The Armageddon drill will begin shortly.</p></div>
<p>&nbsp;<br />
<em>&#8220;Attention All Students&#8221; originally appeared in <strong>Little Star Journal</strong> and has been reprinted here with permission of the author.</em><br />
&nbsp;<br />
<img src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/unnamed2-150x150.jpg" alt="Jeannie Vanasco Poetry Little Start Journal" width="150" height="150" class="alignleft size-thumbnail wp-image-16372" /><em>Jeannie Vanasco is writing a memoir involving a necronym, psychosis, and an artificial eye. An excerpted version appears in the current issue of <strong>The Believer</strong>. Her other writing has appeared in <strong>Prairie Schooner</strong>, <strong>Times Literary Supplement</strong>, <strong>Tin House</strong>, and elsewhere.</em><br />
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		<title>Rue by Mark Levine via The Iowa Review</title>
		<link>https://litragger.com/poetry/rue-by-mark-levine-vie-the-iowa-review/</link>
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		<pubDate>Thu, 27 Aug 2015 15:16:09 +0000</pubDate>
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				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Iowa Review]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[mark levine]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Redux]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Rue I was a traveler in my day a business traveler, territorial in the grassy gaps. I sold bonds to clients hungry for bonds in the boundless sales call door to door among “folks.” It was a job I was born with. I had a heavy sample bag rubber-banded stack of calling cards and leather<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/rue-by-mark-levine-vie-the-iowa-review/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Rue</strong></p>
<div class="poem">I was a traveler in my day<br />
a business traveler, territorial<br />
in the grassy gaps.<br />
I sold bonds<br />
to clients hungry for bonds<br />
in the boundless sales call<br />
door to door among<br />
“folks.”<br />
It was a job<br />
I was born with.<br />
I had a heavy sample bag<br />
rubber-banded stack of calling cards<br />
and leather binder<br />
(embossed)<br />
opening upon a vista of<br />
lamination, obligation<br />
rumination.I furnished<br />
a nation to the chemical engineers and wives<br />
of Schenectady, New York,<br />
over coffee, over roast beef<br />
and piano, a kingdom, a nation, a<br />
principality, landlocked state, aspirational acreage,<br />
spiritual fallout hideout.<br />
I showed a picture of my boy<br />
cross-legged in front of a backdrop<br />
of a glaciated hanging valley<br />
deep in the transaction<br />
among handshakes and signatures<br />
if it came to it<br />
This is my boy, I said<br />
Come to me.I was a traveler.<br />
Later I inspected<br />
the nickel mines near Sudbury<br />
telling my boy about the endless<br />
sheer black subterranean drop<br />
in the cage.<br />
I was telling the truth<br />
when I knew how to, as I had to, as<br />
sales required, as stewardship permitted, long before<br />
disembodiment.<br />
I kept a picture of my boy<br />
in front of a cardboard tree and treehouse platform<br />
tacked to the upholstered<br />
partition above my desk.<br />
Once I brought him to the office.<br />
He stared at himself.<br />
“I had a treehouse then,” he said.</p>
</div>
<p><em>&#8220;Rue&#8221; originally appeared in <strong>The Iowa Review</strong> and has been reprinted here with permission of the author.</em><br />
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<img class="alignleft size-thumbnail wp-image-16346" src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/marklevine_1-150x150.jpg" alt="mark levine poetry" width="150" height="150" /><em>Mark Levine is the author of three books of poems, Debt, Enola Gay, and The Wilds, and a book of nonfiction, F5. <span style="color: #222222;">A new book of poems, </span><i style="color: #222222;">Travels of Marco</i><span style="color: #222222;">, will be published by Four Way Books in Spring 2016. </span>The recipient of a Whiting Writers&#8217; Award, an NEA, and a Hodder Fellowship from Princeton, his poems have appeared in numerous journals and in anthologies including <strong>Best American Poetry</strong>, Pushcart Prize Anthology, American Hybrid and American Poets in the the Twenty-First Century: The New Poetics. A member of the Workshop faculty since 1999, he has also worked extensively as a journalist for magazines including <strong>The New York Times Magazine</strong>, <strong>Outside</strong>, and <strong>The New Yorker</strong>.</em></p>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wilds-New-California-Poetry/dp/0520240413/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" class="sc-button sc-button-default"><span>Get Mark&#8217;s Book</span></a>
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		<title>American Radiance by Luisa Muradyan via West Branch</title>
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		<pubDate>Thu, 13 Aug 2015 14:32:31 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[LitRagger]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Luisa Muradyan]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Redux]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[University of Houston]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[west branch]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[American Radiance Walmart, 1992 There is a radiance the way the firefly breaks his body and you stand in the shadows of that light, small, born of things. It is how you chose which package of meat to take. How you remember the Soviet grocery lines here is a spoon, here is a fork, here<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/american-radiance-by-luisa-muradyan-via-west-branch/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>American Radiance</strong><br />
<em>Walmart, 1992</em></p>
<div class="poem">There is a radiance the way the firefly<br />
breaks his body and you stand in the shadows<br />
of that light,<br />
small, born of things.<br />
It is how you chose which package of meat<br />
to take. How you remember the Soviet grocery lines<br />
here is a spoon, here is a fork, here are two hands cupped<br />
together in prayer. How your mother held<br />
the chicken as a child<br />
arms wrapped around,<br />
tomatoes heavy in her pockets,<br />
breaking the neck in the glint<br />
of moonlight. An empty store<br />
on fire with florescence, the moment when<br />
you stand in an aisle of lamps<br />
and believe in the darkness.</div>
<p>&nbsp;<br />
<em>&#8220;American Radiance&#8221; originally appeared in <strong>West Branch</strong> and has been reprinted with permission of the author.</em><br />
&nbsp;<br />
<em><a href="/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/luisamuradyan.jpg"><img class="alignleft  wp-image-16315" src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/luisamuradyan-150x150.jpg" alt="luisamuradyan" width="93" height="93" /></a>Originally from the Ukraine, Luisa Muradyan is currently a PhD student at the University of Houston, where she is an Editor at Gulf Coast. Her previous work has appeared or is forthcoming in<strong> Blackbird</strong>, <strong>West Branch</strong>,<strong> Ninth Letter</strong>, and <strong>PANK</strong> among others.</em><br />
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		<title>Apples by Anzhelina Polonskaya (tran. Andrew Wachtel) via American Poetry Review</title>
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		<pubDate>Thu, 30 Jul 2015 14:51:44 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[LitRagger]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[american poetry review]]></category>
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		<description><![CDATA[Apples Gray branches, dull thuds. Apples falling in late November, and we gather them with frozen hands. Am I wrong? or did you say something, not tearing your eyes from the ground? Something like “evil will triumph,” you said quietly. As if the tundra&#8217;s beyond us. As if we&#8217;re gathering stones in our skirts. &#160;<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/apples-by-anzhelina-polonskaya-tran-andrew-wachtel-via-american-poetry-review/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Apples</strong></p>
<div class="poem">Gray branches, dull thuds.<br />
Apples falling in late November, and we<br />
gather them with frozen hands. Am I wrong?</p>
<p>or did you say something,<br />
not tearing your eyes from the ground?</p>
<p>Something like “evil will triumph,”<br />
you said quietly.<br />
As if the tundra&#8217;s beyond us. As if we&#8217;re gathering stones in our skirts.</p>
</div>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><i>&#8220;Apples&#8221; was originally published in American Poetry Review</i><i> and has been reprinted here with permission of the author.</i></p>
<p><a href="/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/unnamed.jpg"><img class="alignleft size-thumbnail wp-image-16163" src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/unnamed-150x150.jpg" alt="Anzhelina Polonskaya" width="150" height="150" /></a><em>Anzhelina Polonskaya was born in </em>Malakhovka<em>, a small town near Moscow. Since 1998, she has been a member of the Moscow Union of Writers and in 2003, Polonskaya became a member of the Russian PEN-centre. In </em>2004<em> an English version of her book, entitled <strong>A Voice</strong>, appeared in the acclaimed “Writings from an Unbound Europe” series at Northwestern University Press. This book was shortlisted for the 2005 Corneliu M Popescu Prize for European Poetry in Translation. Her work has appeared in <strong>Boulevard</strong> , <strong>The Iowa Review</strong>, <strong>The Massachusetts Review</strong>, <strong>Prairie Schooner</strong>,<strong> Barrow Street</strong>, <strong>The Journal</strong>,<strong> Poetry Daily</strong>, <strong>AGNI</strong>, <strong>New England Review</strong>, and <strong>The Literary Review</strong>, among other publications. Her book <strong>Paul Klee&#8217;s Boat</strong> was shortlisted for </em>the 2014<em> Best Translated Book Award and for the 2014 PEN Award for Poetry in Translation.</em></p>
<p><em>Andrew Wachtel is the president of the American University of Central Asia in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. He has translated poetry and prose from Russian, Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian, </em>Bulgarian<em> and Slovenian.</em></p>
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		<title>Tap Out by Edgar Kunz via Redivider</title>
		<link>https://litragger.com/poetry/tap-out-by-edgar-kunz-via-redivider/</link>
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		<pubDate>Thu, 23 Jul 2015 14:03:44 +0000</pubDate>
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				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[redivider]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[Stegner]]></category>
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		<description><![CDATA[Tap Out We were vicious. Swollen cheekbones, bruised jaws. Forearms chafed raw and weeping. The Boston Crab. The Texas Cloverleaf. The Cross- Face Chicken Wing. One time, Ant wrenched my shoulder so hard I couldn’t lift my arm for a week. Another time, Mike’s brother Daryl tried a front-flip slam off the back steps and<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/tap-out-by-edgar-kunz-via-redivider/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Tap Out</strong></p>
<div class="poem">We were vicious. Swollen cheekbones, bruised jaws.<br />
Forearms chafed raw and weeping. The Boston<br />
Crab. The Texas Cloverleaf. The Cross-<br />
Face Chicken Wing. One time, Ant wrenched<br />
my shoulder so hard I couldn’t lift my arm<br />
for a week. Another time, Mike’s brother Daryl tried<br />
a front-flip slam off the back steps and landed<br />
face-first in the dirt. Wrist-bone shot clear<br />
through the skin and gleaming. Mike’s dad worked<br />
second shift at Pratt, so if we were loud he’d holler<br />
out the bedroom window, but there was nothing<br />
he could do to punish us we weren’t already doing<br />
to each other. And we knew it. Like that time<br />
Daryl showed us his pistol, a .22 he lifted<br />
from a friend’s house. We passed it around,<br />
weighing it in our palms. It was heavier<br />
than it looked, but it felt good. He put the barrel<br />
in his mouth and when we jumped up<br />
he laughed and laughed <em>Priceless!</em> he said red-faced<br />
and gasping. <em>You pussies almost wet your pants!</em><br />
We learned new moves, new ways to shock the body<br />
into miracles of pain. The Figure-Four Lock.<br />
The Vise Grip. Every muscle trembling.<br />
The Tarantula. The Camel Clutch. Mouth<br />
pressed against their ear, hissing <em>Tap out dickhead</em><br />
<em> you’re not getting out of this you’re mine kid</em><br />
<em> tap out and it’ll stop</em>. The Sharpshooter.<br />
The Hammerlock. That sour-hot breath in your ear<br />
and knowing you won’t give in, you won’t give him<br />
the satisfaction, even when it hurts more<br />
than anything, more than your dad’s belt<br />
blistering your backside, more than the night<br />
when Daryl put that gun in his mouth and the sound<br />
of it woke the whole block, so much you grit<br />
your teeth against the pain, sharp kneecap<br />
bearing down on your chest, your elbow torqued<br />
past its limit, and you swear you could bust<br />
out of yourself and look down at your body, helpless<br />
and small and trembling, press your mouth<br />
to your own ear and whisper <em>Not you. Not you.</em></div>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><em>&#8220;Tap Out&#8221; was original published in Redivider and has been reprinted here with permission of the author.&#8221;</em></p>
<p><a href="/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/unnamed.jpg"><img class="alignleft  wp-image-16267" src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/unnamed-150x150.jpg" alt="edgar kunz poetry" width="87" height="87" /></a><em>Edgar Kunz is from Massachusetts. His poems can be found in AGNI, The Missouri Review, Gulf Coast, Indiana Review, and other places. He is a 2015-2017 Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University and lives in San Francisco.</em></p>
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		<title>Atlantic City by Josephine Rowe via Cordite Poetry Review</title>
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		<pubDate>Thu, 02 Jul 2015 14:43:39 +0000</pubDate>
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				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[cordite]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[josephine rowe]]></category>
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		<description><![CDATA[Atlantic City That was the year we came across the Pulaski Skyway. The middle of March, New Jersey stretching out before us like an old blanket they were trying to shake the dust out of. Eddie Rabbitt singing Well, I love a rainy night from the dashboard of every Pontiac Sunbird, every Chevrolet Chevette. We<div class="read-more"><a href="/poetry/atlantic-city-by-josephine-rowe-via-cordite-poetry-review/" title="Read More">Read More</a></div>]]></description>
				<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Atlantic City</strong></p>
<p>That was the year we came across the Pulaski Skyway. The middle of March, New Jersey stretching out before us like an old blanket they were trying to shake the dust out of. Eddie Rabbitt singing Well, I love a rainy night from the dashboard of every Pontiac Sunbird, every Chevrolet Chevette. We thought we’d get to the promenade and it would be there, waiting for us on the bleached herringbone of the boardwalk but we walked eight miles, up and then back and we did not find it. In the casinos rising from the rubble of the Traymore, of the Marlborough-Blenheim, we did not find it. We bought a souvenir globe from Bally’s Park Place and we shook it up, shook it up till it cracked and it spilled but it still wouldn’t say. In lucky dice, all-you-can-eat, bottomless coffee, nickela-spin, we did not find it. We put our make up on, fixed our hair up pretty but we did not find it: not in thin motel sheets or saltwater taffy, or between the pages of paperback bibles tucked into plywood drawers. We searched the eyes of the croupiers and card sharps but we did not find it, and the men who ran the rolling chairs were taciturn and breathless. We held our hands out to former Miss Americas in palm-reading parlours and they assured us that yes, it was there somewhere, muffled by the green felt of roulette tables, lost in a jangle of slot-machine song, in the bloody fallout from a nail bomb beneath the porch of a Philadelphia rowhome. But no, we did not find it, not in the brassy sweat of Kentucky Avenue clubs, prohibition memorabilia or the plastic cups of beer we drank in line for the blackjack game. And perhaps we never came any closer than the moon shining off the metal of defunct amusement park rides, cool steel of the big wheel felt though our clothes as we pitched our bottles into the sea and the wind bawled like an orphaned calf around the stumps of Million Dollar Pier. That was the year we came across the Pulaski Skyway. But we were too late, or too early, and we did not find it.</p>
<p><em>&#8220;Atlantic City&#8221; originally appeared in Cordite Poetry Review and has been reprinted with permission of the author. </em></p>
<p><em><br />
<img class="alignleft  wp-image-16203" src="/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/Self-June-9th-Josephine-Rowe-150x150.jpg" alt="Josephine Rowe" width="113" height="113" />Josephine Rowe is an Australian writer living in Oakland, California. Her writing has appeared in <strong>Narrative</strong>, <strong>The Iowa Review</strong>, <strong>Harvard Review</strong>, <strong>McSweeney&#8217;s Quarterly Concern</strong> and on <strong>The Paris Review Daily</strong>, and she is the author of two short story collections, most recently Tarcutta Wake (UQP, 2012). She is currently a 2014-2016 Wallace Stegner Fellow in Fiction at Stanford University. Her debut novel, A Loving, Faithful Animal, will be published in 2016.</em></p>
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