Bad Harvest is a resonant folk song that fills the chambers of the future with echoes of the past. Its complex twists of hereditary and personal relations with language and work open a chasm of concern for the future that Dzvinia Orlowsky locates and does a little dance on the edge of. She stares openly, even mockingly, into the pit of impermanence and unpredictability, spinning the prescribed doom and mortality of what we all know shall end: health, love, and livelihood.
What ties these people and their lives together is that, as in Joyce’s Ulysses, the entire story takes place in the course of a single day–a Wednesday in summer–and all within a single city–New York. Our Mr. Bloom, however, isn’t a Leopold but a Larry, who works as a tour guide and who, on this particular day, is leading a group of Dutch tourists through the city their ancestors colonized some four centuries before.
What is a Jewish poem? This question has been on my mind since I began writing poetry in high school. If I write poems about Jewish holidays and Israel, are they Jewish poems? If I write a poem that includes a few Hebrew or Yiddish words, is the poem Jewish? If the poet is Jewish, is the poem automatically Jewish as well?
GMR welcomes new Managing Editor and Nonfiction Editor Jessica Hendry Nelson, as well as our new staff of Editorial Assistants.
ALEXANDRA TEAGUE is the author of Mortal Geography (Persea 2010), winner of the 2009 Lexi Rudnitsky Prize and 2010 California Book Award, and The Wise and Foolish Builders (Persea 2015).
Gabriel Blackwell is emerging as one of our great formal innovators. What Gary Lutz has been doing at the level of sentences and words, Blackwell is doing at the level of stories, essays, and novels. . . . His latest and best book to date . . . is a dark, wondrous labyrinth fitting for the presentation of a fictional H.P. Lovecraft’s last letter.
Dad’s a manwhore. On his first date with Mom, he made her watch a bunch of filthy Betamax tapes with him. She let him. Dad was a banker from a good family. Mom’s dad set the date up. And on rolled the Betamax. Because this was the seventies, I like to picture this all going down in sepia: Mom fluffing her hair, applying lipstick, Dad listening to Supertramp and doing coke out of the filter end of a Parliament in his Lincoln, Mom screeching at the sight of John Holmes’s monster member.
CRAIG BEAVEN has poems out now or forthcoming in Carolina Quarterly, Third Coast, Prairie Schooner, North American Review, and others.
A plumber died in the trenches. The red earth caved, made a sucking sound as the cold clay swallowed his knees and then the topsoil cascaded in a sigh. In that first second of his boots sinking, he thought about wet socks.