Monday, December 20, 2010

Scott Abels [Part Two]


During the commercial
for drinking coffee with Ronald Reagan
we brush our teeth in the river
with a hundred neighbors.
My trousers are just butterflies.
Your legs look long
like long eggs.
Fresh cut grass.
Something lucky follows,
and when you look
into his whipping cream eyes
they sell a lot of coffee.
You just cannot bomb mud.
There is work to do.  Wake up now.

Originally from Nebraska, Scott Abels currently lives and teaches in Honolulu.  More of his poems can be found online and in print with Word for/Word, Juked, Lungfull!, Sixth Finch, Action Yes, Fringe, Alice Blue, Jellyfish, Sawbuck, Raft, and many others.  He edits the online poetry journal Country Music.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Scott Abels


I have my night class
draft homestead acts.
Jed does a flood control project, and
Clown of Vaseline has chapped lips
for years.  There is pee flying into
a pail in the grain states.
I put some heartburn
into my soft water.
I say, students,
did you know this sock
used to be puppets?
Tomorrow, I will do a pun.
The daylight is coming
quickly on.

Originally from Nebraska, Scott Abels currently lives and teaches in Honolulu.  More of his poems can be found online and in print with Word for/WordJukedLungfull!Sixth FinchAction YesFringeAlice BlueJellyfishSawbuckRaft, and many others.  He edits the online poetry journal Country Music.

Monday, December 06, 2010

Daniel Citro

Please click on the image to enlarge.

Daniel Citro lives in Athens, Ga where he is working on a PhD in English and Creative Writing. He is the author of a chapbook,Just Now the Wallop, from MudLuscious Press.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Ida Stewart

Glossary: Mn- Words

neither from eliminate
(to expel or divulge across a threshold—a door or mouth— — —)

nor from limb
(from lith and limbo; among other component parts, the spur of the mo-
untain range and a disadvantage; the edge
of the disk of a heavenly body and hell)


Is this monolithic or what (that -lith—or sometimes -lite—for stone)?
Where were we? Hello:


a device that need not work to work.


The spelling teacher blew smoke, true story, “This is one of those tricky words
in which the n works like an l.”

afar and away rock- and hole-
scape, not man and not

main mean mine moan moon

what you promised.

I see moon, I said,
my first sentence.

Tipping point blank of no return:

Choose your own adventure, little boy lost
in the woods, little boy blonde

in the hay, little boy blew
it on the spelling test.

So we enchanted—
Em oh, You in, Tee ay, Eye in

We cast the spell
afar and away.


— –
Forest felled for autumn.
History fell for amnesia.

We felt between, thresheld, imminent.

Ida Stewart’s poems and short fiction have been published recently in The Laurel Review, Unsplendid, Staccato, MAYDAY Magazine, and Linebreak. A West Virginia native, she holds an MFA in creative writing from The Ohio State University and is currently pursuing a PhD in literature and creative writing at The University of Georgia.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Joshua Ware [Part Two]

Joshua Ware lives in Lincoln, NE where he is pursuing his PhD in poetry and poetics.  He is the co-author of the chapbook I, NE: Iterations of the Junco, as well as the author of the chapbooks A Series of Ad Hoc Permutations and the forthcoming Excavations.  He work has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals, such as American Letters & Commentary, Colorado Review, New American Writing, and Quarterly West.

Sunday, November 07, 2010

Joshua Ware

Joshua Ware lives in Lincoln, NE where he is pursuing his PhD in poetry and poetics.  He is the co-author of the chapbook I, NE: Iterations of the Junco, as well as the author of the chapbooks A Series of Ad Hoc Permutations and the forthcoming Excavations.  He work has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals, such as American Letters & Commentary, Colorado Review, New American Writing, and Quarterly West.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Noah Falck

Homage to Steve Whalen from Noah Falck on Vimeo.

Noah Falck is the author of three chapbook collections, most recently Life As A Crossword Puzzle, which won the 2009 Open Thread Chapbook Award.  His recent work has appeared or will appear in Forklift Ohio, Greensboro Review, New York Quarterly, and The Equalizer. Visit him at

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Julia Anjard Maher


Here wires dangle
their limp primary
blues and reds

a kindergarten
of upturned bulbs.

At their broken ends,
individuals sprouted

and my eyes closed––
afraid to put one out.

I squeezed along the left––
weeds of vomiting machinery
cardinal direction surged

live snakes entwined my thigh––
and made for the
counter likewise covered.

Hamstrung out
I held that long eye
feckless against the dark
as I turned

you too had squeezed––
not quite the shape––

and looking up
in your eyes
only my face.


I had to bake him in
a pie

24 –– no –– 13
ways to flight

he flew out flittermouse-like

shadows on Courthouse Midnight’s steps.

A Ph.D. student at the University of Georgia, Julia Anjard Maher lives in balmy Athens, Georgia where she is working on her first book-length collection: Four Streams : 四 川. These pieces are part of her newest project––a Spicerian serial poem that takes Greek mythology for one of its braided subjects.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Sara Mumolo


Maybe she's as lonely as the rest of us, not comfortable with failure. I step into your voice, its outfit. I watch you wear your voice as an outfit. You could say I cultivated a face. In your. Make-up. I've packed up all the weather. The men having babies in their paintings. Babies history arrests outside of my museum, which is her museum. I sing into its building, unharvested with echo. Tone on sleeve. She's as lonely as the rest of us, she says. And wears it, disdainfully. I put my cheek on the frame to cool my eyes. You say you’re writing this one as a woman comfortable with failure. I am breathing this one as a failure comforting her. She writes this uncomfortable movement. This one has a body to zip up. This one is a reel around the baby. A bird's wingspan in a museum, its echo on my tear.

Sara Mumolo works at Studio One Art Center in Oakland, CA and curates the Studio One Reading Series with Clay Banes. With Alisa Heinzman she publishes the CALAVERAS series and is also a Poetry Editor at Omnidawn. Check out some of her poems in 1913: a journal of forms, Eleven Eleven, Mrs Maybe, Typo, Cannibal and West Wind Review, among others. The Mumolos are from Brindisi, the port-town where Virgil died.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Julie Carr


The kettle boils, boils now.

Maligned and languishing in an upstairs room: a lacrimal dimple

trips the obscene.

Honk geese: soprano duck, duck

hobbles, belly first, a girl-falcon spins,

rebuffs the rough draft.

Too long, my husband’s sweater

sleeve. My patience no: threads of what

warms a baby's unrivalled calamitous

hour. Full sob

transpires to rust the pendulous rug,

long in the arms, short in time.

Without hours, how cheer? Old devotions

now point to

sorrow: cap’s cracked and leaking.

Door doesn’t open: exit through mirror.


the plumbing



Euphonic rubber spin,

whose driving you where? Wherefore

drink in the warm air pressed from

the dash dash dash of

my figurative folk-form. My hap-

hazard phrase is cued, lit, and moving

down the avenue, the avenue



For not wanting to dose oneself in the mother

you will receive a forty-dollar fine.

Rising out of feet, and flowering, as a plumb tree flowers:

an aromatic man.

Emails from travelers, from soon-to-be friends, whose spelling is terrible

and what does that portend?

The matted hair of a doll: almost flowing, is.

Breathe in. And I am not going anywhere, studied by God.

Bleary from living under sun, my condition is excellent for pleasure.

The “brain people” say the murderer cannot be jailed

because he is only eleven. The “morality people” say he cannot be judged

because he is only eleven.

But the “law people” are going to take his life away. Bracken

in the mind suspended above the floor knows of wheat fields and

branches horizontally lusting. And an exquisite flower just today

opens. How best to

empty it?

Julie Carr is the author of four books of poetry, most recently, 100 Notes on Violence from Ahsahta Press and Sarah-Of Fragments and Lines, due out from Coffee House in September. She is the co-publisher, with Tim Roberts, of Counterpath Press, and teaches in the MFA program at the University of Colorado at Boulder.

Monday, July 05, 2010

Joseph Massey


To think through
each word's
particular weather.

To stand
just far enough
outside of the page.

A field drapes
the eye
in limitless revision.

How shadows
that fill the gap
between two stones

imply the sky's weight.

Joseph Massey lives in Arcata, California. His most recent book is Exit North (Book Thug, 2010).

Monday, June 28, 2010

Jackie Clark


We have spent
the day collecting

like mercury.
Our shiny

beaded pool,
our independent

gauge. I am only
every adjective I can’t

think of and still
you are well-fitted

from bone to skin.
It is menacing

to acquire fences,
to drive down

from the mountain
day after day.


Under the

of the red room
I am unwrinkling

gallantry with
a blindfold.

You are
forcing the hatch

and bounding
the floor in rubber.

The idea of us
is my palm

held up parallel
to my face.

Jackie Clark is editor-in-chief of LIT magazine. She is also the series editor ofPoets off Poetry at Coldfront. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming from Word for/Word, Sixth Finch, and Fou, among other places. Her chapbook Office Work is forthcoming from Greying Ghost Press. She blogs occasionally at No Help for That.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Zachary Schomburg

Zachary Schomburg is the author of The Man Suit (Black Ocean 2007), Scary, No Scary (Black Ocean 2009), a dvd of poem-films, Little Blind Thing (Poor Claudia 2010), and several small press chapbooks. You might run into him in your town sometime.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Magdalena Zurawski

[The dumb dog comes home]

I had by noon
gone down
to the bank

‘Fool’ I thought
she could count
me out
of my hands

my face at least
will be
my own
I thought

I will
know me
by the mouth
that feeds her

Magdalena Zurawski's novel The Bruise won the 2008 Lambda Award for lesbian debut fiction. Currently she is working on a manuscript of poems. She lives in Durham, NC.

Monday, June 07, 2010

Daniel Lin

LoFi Naturalism

A clotted conversation
In the municipal park
Under clarifying rain.
Our intentions were stellar;
The production was ultra
Low budget (coffee and gum);
The words were plain, part rehearsed,
And said unbeautifully.
The feelings engendered were
Severe and unexpected.

Daniel Lin has poems in the current issues of Octopus , Sink Review and Notre Dame Review. He edits the NYC-based small press, Love Among the Ruins, which publishes an online journal and poetry chapbooks.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Emily Kendal Frey


I got stuck in the bathroom.
When I came out I saw a sign.
Do you want to know more about birds? the sign said.


I feel sorry for people who fall in love with other people.
We wait on the boat's deck to see a whale.
What we see are waves.
Dead-hearted tomatoes bobbing up and down.
Ocean of hearts.


I kept saying It's from my childhood but it wasn't.
It wasn't something I'd ever seen before.
Why did I say that?
Why am I a red butterfly?

Emily Kendal Frey lives in Portland, Oregon and teaches at Portland Community College. She is the author of Airport (Blue Hour 2009), Frances (Poor Claudia 2010), and The New Planet (Mindmade Books 2010).

Monday, May 24, 2010

Abraham Smith



because you can stand on
a rotten moose liver all
day in maine in a big old
rain and i still love you
sheet shake flea bane rain
would love to
fatten you up to eat
you? to heath bar you to
heath bar wrapper in
the shit of a bear just that just wrapper
and berry seeds doing
the spangle squat gear
out there in front of
god and everybody because
bears are not toilet people
bears are honest americans we void everything
behind a white flag and a toilet’s
conversation with a septic
stopped outside
lost a whisker off the hair shirt of truth
with a truck with a man
made his fortune hauling
shit spits outs his window
lady didn’t see it fly
come home rust kids
with the papers to buy
the aerials of their farms
took the yearling flight
it’s nice to see us high
it’s good for conversation
that’s where we are at
where’s my heart?
barn or silo or house like
an eyelid on a sheep sly
little seagull with a belly
like a barn where were you born?
like a shoe in the road dozers
the mind toward bouldering
the septic pump bill in one
leap over the flaming candle kitchen table
that’s his revelation
there’s shit for money
i been thinking why don’t i build
houses with windows designed
to open out to pines
shallow roots sandy soil a good hard wind
and my windows would go the further
god bless the ten twenty ants with their thirty
forty legs stuck on
nostalgia’s sucrose cement
like eyelashes in honey in the car
finish wrecker sap off a creaky creaky snap snap pine
but then seeing goes south as ya grow older
still there’s a sandbar in every deep promise
so my windows take you further over time
right now pine sap candle slaps
them sapsuckers
hanging out there by willow
never call your kid by the name of a sad tree
parked by them damn dick drip pines what’s
the capital of thailand see and then i
kick you in the balls
with a jag of blind eye
and a pack of burdock cheroots my i
is in this idea i i.d. the line of them that picket
to bring back that window tax you’d think
as the kids fatten we’d be heading
that way anyway houses like vinyl beats
living in an elegy for trees and get this
the vinyl squeaks in a good wind a safe
cracking song guy’s getting paid good
to board up your seeing’s seats and this one
channel up high like 200 to show
what goes on outside it’s four guys with guns
a bird one poet guy or gal can’t tell
the channel’s like an ultrasound what
swings low? that a simile prone pencil
or a pack of smokes you save from
the rain with the denim lid on a pocket
and a bold cupped hand
there by the channel that shows you the freeway
old men can’t sleep wonder would the taillights
would the red lights light red if my eyes
didn’t burn for the gal in the grocery
maybe 22 that’s a gun am i fit for the
charnal or the carnal that’s a wash the
price of doing business with an indoor
flame try ombudsmen with burning sticks
milling in the library parking lot
touch a cloud tickler
tickling the prostates on them chinese
fireworks pointed out over the river
lord my heart is stuck to my ear
and my ear is just a wrinkly
extension of fear of
breaking bones on a radio
a western torture a fallen
horse dust was a breath mint
crunched by teeth evolution
took years to shorten our wider set
of hippo trending chompers
for fibrous matter once you are
into rotten meat and sliding
back up that cheetah tree teeth
slip small as half dissolved aspirin
as headstones via aerials
them three poking through
viva great uncle cretin clyde
tight as the space
between a rock and its mosses
two sister kin too took the
typhoid in ‘00 and ‘19 and
been mary huggers
ever since fat slob preacher
kicking my ass against a window
on a bus through curvy mississippi
i got a pistol and a bible in this
box and i am fixing to use either one
sooner stave the mary light
off the crouching passing
animal eye click of the
knife on the teeth his habit
when he’s thinking
bless the chord in the neck
of the running wolverine
plum the keep
deep the stranger
here we go
am i trying you
trying on coat or prolix?
here’s the butter so cold you
can’t cut it here’s a
grackle all spanish dancer by
the muffin crumb here’s an elegy
for gravel it goes ore villa one-stop shunt

Abraham Smith hails from Ladysmith, Wisconsin. Action Books published his Whim Man Mammon and will publish his Hank in the coming autumnal season. Smith's recent performative laurels include stints at the Academy of American Poets Rooftop Reading Series and Opium Magazine's Literary Death Match NYC. He teaches composition, literature, and creative writing at University of Alabama.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Jacqueline Waters


a plugged-in glow globe throwing

              thumbprints of land, islets of the outer Pacific

              over snow

              stuffing up gaps

              in the hospital hot/cool unit.

no sleep at first, dream

about a patch of bog

paved over by the wide margin

Thoreau loves to his life:

“I love a wide margin to my life” – Thoreau.

it was lovely to say

                        that it was raining

             and to mean

                        that part of you was low: half

                        was suspecting yourself

                        on to something: the rest

             fell from following

             the first half’s lead:

             opening a book on the bar

             in front of each empty chair:

             setting yourself

             at the bar’s far end

             till night, your own cloud of it

                         ran right to the orbs of your eyes.

             No emotion is pleasing!

             Each must be rejected

             replaced by an opposite

             rejected and replaced by yet another

             vast strain of undifferentiated sentiment

             till longing collapses

as its silvered edges

             ebb themselves equal, eager

             to stand there lapsed

                        by the great lapses

                        you find in your way

                        until you find your way

             or till you find your ways

             have rearranged you slightly

                        as a mirror rearranges slightly

                        what has mostly been lived

                        by sight.

Jacqueline Waters is the author of a book, A Minute without Danger (Adventures in Poetry), and a chapbook, The Garden of Eden a College (A Rest Press). A new book will be published by Ugly Duckling Presse in 2011. She lives in San Francisco and is an editor of The Physiocrats, a pamphlet press.

Sunday, May 09, 2010

Brian Henry


My mouth makes ice cream from mulch,
I reach the farther shore. Come, I motion,
& you follow, skidding across the surface
on your homegrown skidding thing. It floats
along famously, as well as any ski.
After a casual assault, the sun retreats.
My elbows have gone all naugahyde, knees
skinned to the bone from the day’s begging.
I bury my nethers in the sand and wait
for your journey to be complete, sand fleas
scatter as if I’d brought a rod & hooks.
The ice cream is gone but it was good.
I nod off & doze, missing the moment
you go under. The skidding thing skids


That’s a baby
you’re holding.

Brian Henry is the author of five books of poetry, most recently The Stripping Point (Counterpath). His translation of the Slovenian poet Tomaž Šalamun’s Woods and Chalices (Harcourt) appeared in 2008, and his translation of Aleš Šteger’s The Book of Things is forthcoming from BOA Editions. A Serbian edition of Henry’s poems will appear in 2010.

Sunday, May 02, 2010

Amber DiPietra

after 1


remove contact
night glasses

mon-oculate at
K’s mouth,

just a
black hole
in his face.

Dream I ate his brain,

diffused our fight
by morning,

bytes in

Our brain,
the cat puts a parasite in

so we love
him more, suffer

litter with some
on the rug.

Shadow, the oldest
of 4
K brought
to apartment
and a corpse
under the

Electric composter
doesn’t belong in tiny
old Victorian.

I like Saturdays,
over and over scarred wood.

Will the machine eat its own cord?

heart heart
burrow in
become zero

Amber DiPietra is a poet and disability culture worker in San Francisco. Her interests include tracking the orthopedic body in real time, personal fossil records, ¡accion mutante! politics, and warm waters. Poems and prose pieces by Amber have appeared or are forthcoming in Make, A Chicago Literary Magazine, Mirage Period[ica], Tarpaulin Sky, Mrs. Maybe and TRY!. Visit her blog at

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Brandon Shimoda


I, with a slight injury, was human
And you were human too
People now dressed in top fashion with long skirts
Are human
And people buried with no one to look after them
Are human too

Grandchildren, mind you
Sitting, reading
Correcting the manipulations
For example I am not your rightful granddaughter
With good legs describing perfection in fire
Racing over the black roof as a gray tree swinging a stunted hick may
be a wind-flattened hammer of land, a giant steadying for the worst

Purple hair on a brown head. The whitest
Gotten away with
Yellow head
Weighed by strenuous floss. A pink body walking the shoulder of a busy road
To meet the blister she is giving herself to
Hands clutching a tiny trophy, and yet
When is the pink body going to stop stuttering and care?
Living human beings twenty-seven years ago who were no better than rags

Shimoda is a fleshpot of inferior rank is the first line of a poem
that bears the imprint of lopsided children raised in exactly that
manner of irresponsibility
And that is that family
Clad in long skirts, regardless of gender
With a hand on the fluttering water is a gorgeous cheek again also

But I am different. I am not your rightful grandson
Hanging from blood thousand trees
Language in its infancy to an infant mind
Neither a familiar party
Nor one of earth’s many wondrous accessories
Struggled up
And over a severely arched bridge
Startled by the majesty of trees along the coast
Accretion of earth in spots, accounting for the isolationist aspect of
trees bunched in mounds

There are indigenous voices resounding in a half-digested ear
Waiting for the bellow to smoothly pinch
The gamboling children
And for all I have done I am done with you
How many times can this be said he said
So he says point blank
It is your future or mine. Either leave me conjoin me or detonate


Brandon Shimoda was born on the west coast of North America. His collaborations, drawings and writings have appeared in print, online, on vinyl and on walls ... and most recently in Lake M: Book One (Corollary Press) and The Bowling, with Sommer Browning (Greying Ghost Press). He currently lives on the west coast of North America.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Amy McDaniel


Please tell me your best
facts about animals.  I’m asking
everyone.  I’ll begin.

The Tasmanian devils are being wiped
out by a frightful epidemic—like the
bees but worse.  The epidemic
is actually called Devil Facial
Tumour Disease.  It is communicable 
within the species via bites 
or especially vehement sex.

To sex a sea urchin, you tap it until
it emits a thin puddle of egg or sperm.
What if this worked on other things!
Imagine wondering what a thing is.
For the price of a few pats on the back,
the thing releases onto your
palm a frank sample, a tiny
pool of its own essence, meaning,
and being. 

Maybe in another lifetime.  Most
things are coy in our world. 
They are couth. 

Amy McDaniel writes for and helps run the Solar Anus reading series in Atlanta. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in matchbook, Alimentum, Tin House, Porchlight and The AgricultureReader. She co-edited From the Second Line, a collection of her students’ personal essays about Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. Her chapbook, Selected Adult Lessons, is available from Agnes Fox Press.

Sunday, April 04, 2010

David Brazil

IN your treatment room

    a 'run-on' line

    is a huge liability

    as they wonder

      qua aletheia

  what does she do when she enters?

      (as I myself did for a long time

   both of these assume a common language

      cited in the opening

        as we know from the fragment of a system


but now the ship-wrecked mariner

    might lead philosophy

  full of objects

and coming to terms with a loss

    through the early phases

  as the quoting source informs us

      concepts of pistis

from the only sphere

    (in the space of the other)

      in her exile

picking out the rhythm

David Brazil was born in New York and lives in California. With Sara Larsen he coedits TRY!, a xerox periodical. A chapbook of his daily writing, "Spy Wednesday," is forthcoming from TAXT Press.


Sunday, March 28, 2010

Amy Berkowitz


I put my wet socks on the radiator and take my dry socks off the radiator. Outside, it’s still snowing.

It’s snowing. All of us buy the same black coat. Leaving parties, it takes us a long time to figure out which black coat is our black coat. We go to a lot of parties because it’s always snowing.

The socks on the radiator are dry now, and warm. I put them on and put wet socks on the radiator.

It’s snowing and the snow covers the ground. On the way to a party on White Oak, we get stuck behind a salt truck and creep along behind it, watching the automatic mechanism swing left and right, shaking big grains of salt on the ground.

The party is terrible. There are blankets on the floor and there’s no whiskey. We would leave the party, but it’s snowing and we need a ride.

Snow falls in shoes hanging from telephone wires and makes perfect snow molds of the shapes of the insides of shoes.

Snow collects in open mailboxes. Snow carpets the steps and makes them soft.

Snow covers my porch and my welcome mat and nobody knows how welcome they are.


The traffic stopped us
So we stopped.
We were near Gilroy
So we got off at Gilroy.
The streets were lined with antique malls
So we each bought a felt hat with feathers
And a delicate smell of the past.
The diner had Chinese food
So we tried it. The diner
Had a bowling alley, so we bowled.
We found a box of clothes so I wore a blazer.
When it got cold, I bowled
In the blazer. When we got bored the traffic
Had moved on. When we got lost
We called a number. When we arrived
A guide met us by the road.

The hot springs were hot so we got in.
It was quiet so we were quiet.
The guide was young
So he got in with us. We were hungry
So he unlocked the kitchen. There was
A separate walk-in fridge for fruit.
The fruit fridge was full of fruit so we took fruit
To eat with the pulled-pork sandwiches
From the normal fridge. The ground
Wasn’t too wet so we sat on the side of the hill
And looked out at the darkness
Which had the feeling of water.

Amy Berkowitz is from New York City, and currently lives in Michigan. Her work has appeared in CoconutShampoo Poetry, and Spooky Boyfriend and is forthcoming in 751 Magazine and L4. She is a founding member of the Washtenaw County Women's Poetry Collective and Casserole Society, whose first collection of collaborative poems is called The Feeling Is Mutual

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Tomaž Šalamun


Sleep pours in on the Polish hills,
an arm grabs a golden stamp.

A squirrel dies in a bag.
A cricket flies over a clearing.

We know where the sword of the brave is from.
The mutation of the eye is the secret.


The lion, which falls on its face, bends the little girl.
Red blood spurts.


The game is death. Husk before death.
In euphoria there are the blackest flowers.


You are my angel.
Mouth strewn with chalk.
I am the servant of the ritual.
White mushrooms in a white field.
In a plain of fire. 
I walk on gold dust.

Translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry.  "Fountain," "'The game is death...'" and "'You are my angel'" from Sonet o Mleku (Sonnet on Milk), 63, 30, and 26, respectively.

Tomaž Šalamun has published more than 37 books of poetry in Slovenia and 11 books in English. His many honors include the Preseren Fund Prize, a visiting Fulbright to Columbia University, and a fellowship to the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. He also has served as Cultural Attaché to the Slovenian Consulate in New York. His poetry has been translated into more than 20 languages around the world. Woods and Chalices, translated by Brian Henry, appeared from Harcourt in 2008.

Brian Henry's sixth book, Wings Without Birds, will appear from Salt Publishing in April 2010.