October 16, 2023 In Memoriam In Remembrance of Louise Glück By Srikanth Reddy Photograph by Katherine Wolkoff. Nearly thirty years ago, during my junior year of college, I took a poetry writing class with Louise Glück. I’d never read any of her books, but I was aware of some undergraduate buzz about a visiting poet who’d recently received the Pulitzer Prize for a book of talking flowers. Her last house had burned down; her father had made his money in blades; she would need someone to drive her to Star Market for groceries on weekends. (I volunteered once, waiting nervously in the parking lot until she returned with a cantaloupe and asparagus.) The person I met in the classroom was frighteningly honest about poetry, and about being a poet. She said it was okay not to write—that she herself had gone several years without writing even a single poem—so it would be perfectly fine if we didn’t share any poems of our own with her that term. When we did turn in something for workshop, she mercilessly rooted out “mannerisms” in our poems; I became terrified of this critique, which only made my writing all the more mannered. She would linger over details like “angels in homespun linen” in a poem by Czesław Miłosz; almost three decades later, I still remember her wry grin of envy at that image. More than anything else, Louise loved it when something was surprising and, in retrospect, inevitable, as it is so often in her work, and in our lives—like the ending of her poem “Happiness”: Read More
October 11, 2023 A Letter from the Editor A Fall Dispatch from the Review’s Poetry Editor By Srikanth Reddy Detail from the cover art of issue no. 245, Joeun Kim Aatchim’s Piggyback (Amused), 2019. Among the numerous accolades I received as a high school student was the honorific, awarded by the Hinsdale Central class of ’95, of worst driver. There’s something about cars, and driving culture at large, that’s never wholly agreed with me. Even now, when an Infiniti cuts me off on the freeway, I’m tempted to ram it in the name of eternity and of all language art. Nevertheless, Olivia Sokolowski’s racy poem “Lover of Cars,” published in the new Fall issue of the Review, came to me as a revelation—a revved-up paean to “all those Stingers Jaguars Tiguans Fiat 500s / and San Remo Green Beemer i4s” in the showroom of the author’s imagination: I want to wrap my face tight with a silk scarf and spiral down a Cinque Terre highway in an Alfa Romeo the color of my innerlip I want to slip deep as a splinter in a black Countach What I love most about this swerving verse is how Sokolowski taps the brakes on her own autoerotic fantasy (“but that’s for when I graduate / from Honda Girl”). “Lover of Cars” made me wonder if the same hapless instructor at Hinsdale Central taught us both driver’s ed and sex ed for a good reason—the point of each course being to prevent a life-altering accident. You can learn more about how “Lover of Cars” came down the assembly line in this month’s Making of a Poem; it makes me wish Infiniti or Honda would name a vehicle after Sokolowski’s poetic alter ego, Olivia+. In fact, any number of our Fall issue contributors could have an automobile named in their honor. The Bei Dao would make a revolutionary electric vehicle; we hope you’ll feel as transported as we were by our extended excerpt from the author’s long-awaited poetic autobiography, propulsively translated from the Chinese by Jeffrey Yang. And it’s easy to imagine packing the family into a Jolanda Insana for a long weekend; as the late poet writes, in Catherine Theis’s plucky translation from the Italian, “the streets of the sublime are endless.” The de la Torre and the Tanaka, too, sound like high-performance vehicles. Not that all poems have to be GTI. Nora Claire Miller’s “Rumor” is more likely to derail you, while Katana Smith’s poetic still life “& Nothing Happens” stops time altogether; D. A. Powell’s “As for What the Rain Can Do” shows how poetry and weather can “turn on a dime.” At the risk of driving my extended metaphor too far, I can’t resist ending with a little story about poetry and cars. The Ford Motor Company once invited Marianne Moore to float possible names for a new sedan. Ford ultimately rejected all of Moore’s suggestions tout court, including the Bullet Lavolta, the Intelligent Whale, the Mongoose Civique, and the Utopian Turtletop, but I’d take any of her recommendations over the marketing department’s choice: the Edsel. Srikanth Reddy is the Review‘s poetry editor.
June 28, 2023 A Letter from the Editor A Summer Dispatch from the Review’s Poetry Editor By Srikanth Reddy Detail from the cover art of issue no. 244: Emilie Louise Gossiaux, London with Ribbon, 2022, ballpoint pen on paper. There’s a thrill of eros to many summer poems. Like in those late-eighties teen movies—Dirty Dancing, Say Anything, One Crazy Summer—you never know when you’ll see some skin. And so it goes in our new Summer issue. In Jessica Laser’s dreamy, autobiographical remembrance “Kings,” the poet recalls a drinking game she used to play in high school on the shore of Lake Michigan over summer vacations: … You never knew whether it would be strip or not, so you always considered wearing layers. It was summer. Sometimes you’d get pretty naked but it wasn’t pushy. You could take off one sock at a time. Read More
May 11, 2023 A Letter from the Editor A Spring Dispatch from the Review’s Poetry Editor By Srikanth Reddy Illustration by Na Kim. Sometimes, on the campus of the university where I work, a visiting writer will explain to a captive audience how great poems—more often than not his own—get written. These explanations often sound a bit mystical, occasionally even mystifying. So I was amused to read the opening lines of Dobby Gibson’s tongue-in-cheek “Small Craft Talk,” a poem our readers discovered in a box of paper slush, and which you’ll find in our Spring issue: In some languages the word for dream is the same as for music is the kind of thing poets like to say Before you know it, Gibson’s takedown of writing-program clichés shades into a wonder at how poems can make us feel ourselves, as Wallace Stevens once put it, “more truly and more strange”: as if you’re hearing the song of your own mind sung into being so that you become yourself by becoming more like another self Read More
December 13, 2022 A Letter from the Editor A Letter from the Review’s New Poetry Editor By Srikanth Reddy As a new member of the Review’s team, it gives me great pleasure to bring you several equally new contributors in our new Winter issue. Some are celebrated literary artists, some are emerging voices, and others fall somewhere in between. Perhaps the most lofty among them is William of Aquitaine, also known as the Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony and the Count of Poitou—the earliest troubadour whose work survives today. For all his lands and eleventh-century titles, there’s a slapstick vibe to this unwitting contributor’s bio that I can’t help but find endearing. Excommunicated not once but twice, and flagrant in his affairs and intrigues, William survived more ups and downs than most modern politicians could ever pull off, and in Lisa Robertson’s agile translation, he speaks to us from the end of his earthly tether: “I, William, have world-fatigue,” he sighs across the centuries. Read More