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Poetry

Victoria Chang, Angie Estes, Alice Oswald, Cole Swensen, Tracy K Smith, Joanna Klink, Marina Colasanti, Affonso Romano de Sant’Anna (translated by Lloyd Schwartz), Rajiv Mohabir, Vincent Katz, Kinsale Drake, Bin Ramke, Rowan Ricardo Phillips, Jennifer Grotz, Aracelis Girmay, Seth Lobis, Denise Duhamel, Brionne Janae, Tessa Bolsover, Danny Kraft, Jo Langdon, Jennifer Barber, Maria Zervos, Louis Aragon (translated by Peter Brown), PM Dunne, Jay White, Geoffrey Nutter, Sean Cho Ayres, Carolyn Oliver, Daniel Pilkington, Alex Baskin, Ian Ganassi, John DeWitt, Ed Steck

Guest Edited Folio

Anti-letters

Emily Dickinson, Jill Magi, Cody-Rose Clevidence, Stacy Szymaszek, Jane Miller, David Grubbs and Susan Howe, James Davis May, Stephanie Young, Bernadette Mayer, Nicholas Regiacorte, Amy Hollywood

Prose

Jessica Wilkinson, Catherine Noonan, Louis Harnett O'Meara, Kenneth Baron, Jackie Wang, Abigail Levine

Art

Susan Metrician, Pedro Barbeito, Meghan Brady, Madelyn Kellum, Benjamin Keating, Margaux Crump, Maisie Luo, Rosaire Appel, Dina El-Sioufi, Elisha Enfield, Jessie Hobeck, Jan Hogan, olivier, Sam Oh, Chloé Milos Azzopardi, Sage Vousé

Sound

Laura Steenberge, Catherine Lamb, Sam Weinberg

Interviews + Reviews

Sam Bailey (interviewing Sam Messer), Timothy Leo (reviewing Peter Grizzi), Edwin Alanís-García (interviewing Qianxun Chen and Mariana Roa Oliva), Tawanda Mulalu (reviewed by Susan Atefat-Peckham)

Poetry / Issue 6

Poetry / Issue 6

and more coming soon

 from Peripheries issue 6

 

 

 

you had me on the hillside


of Clos de la Croix de Pierre in Burgundy


even though we have never


been there. You had me contemplating


the riddles of birds: What looks open


and invites you in but is something you can


never enter? You even had me laughing


at the jokes birds make, like the one


about the Northern Flicker that believes


the cup tattooed on his chest is half


full, when it’s really half empty. You had me

at Andrei Rublev’s grave, which no one


can find, although the bells keep


ringing anyway. Sitting next to you


on the bed before you left, you had me


sitting before the road and you had me inside


you leaving Venice, chanting with the novices


in the monastery of Grande Chartreuse: Tu m’as


séduit, o Seigneur, et moi, je me suis laissé


séduire, O Lord you have seduced


me, and I let myself


be seduced.

00:00 / 01:17

Angie Estes is the author of six books of poems, most recently Parole. Her previous book, Enchantée, won the 2015 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Prize and the Audre Lorde Prize for Lesbian Poets, and Tryst was selected as one of two finalists for the 2010 Pulitzer Prize. Her seventh book is forthcoming from Unbound Edition Press. A collection of essays devoted to Estes’s work appears in the University of Michigan Press "Under Discussion" series: The Allure of Grammar: The Glamour of Angie Estes’s Poetry.

 from Peripheries issue 6

00:00 / 05:11

Hard to stand what hasn’t
worked, what hasn’t
taken shape, all the unsteady
need. I walked over
a steel bridge with you,
which took a long while, feeling
only content. There were streetlights
hazing over the dusk, rain
falling through trees. I did
know that you were living
in the aftermath of great
loss. But I believed the heaviness
would soften, even if
it never ends.

 

 

 

There are hours when
each of us feels we have
not once been at home.
I can imagine the old roads
in Iowa, where I was born,
the woolen wet prairie heat.
Today I have nothing to
say. A new kind of ruin
entered my life
when you showed me it was
possible to never again
try to speak.

I am writing this on a Saturday.
I dislike tasks that must be
endlessly repeated, like
cleaning the sink. There
must be a few people who
delight in such things
and I’ve found it’s possible
to learn someone else’s joy
just by watching. I want
to apprentice myself to exceptional
work. I admire the grass
that persists through thick
bolts of cement, and the air
made by trees. The sleep
we crave, and require.

Don’t be coy—you had convictions.
You had a fierce sense of
what you would and wouldn’t
do. I asked a hundred questions
and still you couldn’t explain
the hospital, the rosebush, the days,
gliding as they were or slowly flashing—
the way we hold on to each other
wanting nothing but bliss—pure,
unspoken, with no need to talk
or strive or understand,
no need for poetry—just a silence,
broad and constant, in which,
occasionally, winds shift or stars fall.

Most of the time I hardly know
what to believe in, beyond
the fragile hinge of each night,
or the secret love people
harbor for each other,
the real will to help. You were
almost there, pensive, tapping
at the screen door. Damage
is effortless. You still come and go.

You pushed off into day
and walked the long streets to work.
The light down the avenue
was beautiful, but it was also a sorrow.
Time to find you. Time to wrap you
into me and buoy you. Years have now
passed. I don’t think
there’s a way to account
for my graceless exit, the crushing
wall of your silence. I love mornings,
I love the whole hour after it’s rained,
and how that simply
passes. Like the sky,
which neither leaves nor arrives.

Maybe you scowl, convince yourself
it was a place that didn’t
exist. It existed. It was not
a distraction or passing
thought: there were blocks
in this city we walked, books
we held out to each other, long
languorous days. A ceiling fan
clicking over the bed.
There is an alphabet
where a tree is a clockhand,
a tunnel a pause,
where night feathers out
to the edge of the suburbs, beyond
the blown ditches and litter, and touches
the dawn, which is kind,
before it even begins.

Joanna Klink is the author of five books of poetry, most recently The Nightfields. She has received awards and fellowships from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Trust of Amy Lowell, and the Guggenheim Foundation. She teaches at the Michener Center for Writers in Austin, Texas.

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