Sound / Writing: essays on homophonic translation

Sound /Writing: 
traduire-écrire  le son et le sens
homophonic translation — traducson — Oberflächenübersetzung
edited by Vincent Broqua and Dirk Weissmann / 356 pp. 
is just out from Editions des Archives Contemporaines
Print edition available soon; I will post information here when I have it.  

Poet and comedian STINE AN: Part I

An interview

In this series, I’ve been exploring poetry through intersections with visual art, cinema, and new media. Through taking up the question of the politics of play, I’m interested in exploring how playing across genres, mediums, forms, disciplines, and departments, etc. makes for new kinds of innovative art, thinking, community, and specifically poetry. In doing so, the hybridity of practices better intervenes and gestures toward transformative futures.

Jerome Rothenberg, with Javier Taboada

From 'UN LIBRO DE LAS VOCES' (forthcoming)

The following are the opening pages of Un Libro de las Voces (A Book of Voices), scheduled for publication early next year by Mangos de Hacha in Mexico, D.F. and the Universidad de Nueva Léon in Monterrey.

[The following are the opening pages of Un Libro de las Voces (A Book of Voices), scheduled for publication early next year by Mangos de Hacha in Mexico, D.F.

What happened to you?: On what is lost and what is possible in exile

An Interview with Sheila Black

Sheila Black, a woman with dark hair and a black top smiles at the camera

In the poem, “What You Mourn,” Sheila Black twists the notion of disability as loss: the assumption that all disabled people were once nondisabled and watched their ability slip away. This assumption is found within questions often asked of disabled people such as: “What happened to you?” What happened to Black, what her speaker mourns, is not becoming disabled but losing the body she knew well at the hands of a doctor who straightened her legs.

Crippled they called us when I was young
later the word was disabled and then differently abled,
but those were all names given by outsiders,
none of whom could imagine
that the crooked body they spoke of,
the body, which made walking difficult
and running practically impossible,
except as a kind of dance, a sideways looping
like someone about to fall
headlong down and hug the earth, that body
they tried so hard to fix, straighten was simply mine[1]

Review of Ahmad Almallah's 'Bitter English'

Review of Ahmad Almallah, Bitter English (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2019), 87 pp.

He stumbles as he says pretty much anything to himself — always while successfully conveying such stumbling to us. He feels that he owes everything to one place but knows that that place is “not here”  not the here of the place where he writes, not even the new “here”-ness the poem makes. How can a poet occupying the space of a page, the classic “here” where even a lost poet can call home, be alienated even from that “here”? The typical poetic existential “here I am” becomes a matter, always, of forgetting and remembering both. (It’s significant that one of the muses here is the poet’s mother, she who suffers from memory loss.)


Review of Ahmad Almallah, Bitter English (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2019), 87 pp.

Note: This review was given as an introduction to Almallahs reading at the Kelly Writers House on October 15, 2019.