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Donald Revell
Stephen Burt
Paul Hoover
Jonah Winter
Cathy Wagner
Reginald Shepherd
Nin Andrews
Sophia Kartsonis
Sandra Miller
Joshua Harmon
Devin Johnston
Chuck Zerby
Sara Henning
Ognjen Smiljanic
Lance Phillips
Peter Drake
Kathleen Byrne
Ernest Hilbert
Garth Greenwell
Marc McKee

Criticism

Brian Henry on Kinsella
Gabriel Welsch on Northrop
Gabriel Welsch on Smith
Cecily Iddings on Ruefle
Christopher McDermott on Wenderoth

Javant Biarujia is a poet and playwright living in Melbourne. He has been published widely in magazines and anthologies in Australia and US. In 1999, he won the inaugural Robert Duncan Prize for Poetry. His two most recent books of poetry are Calques and Low/Life, and he is currently at work on a new book.

Cotillion Cocteau

The Palais-Royal: mundane, romantic, film noir.

Would it have been astounding were I found dead in a

rented room in Paris or Isfahan, or collapsed when

others have merely succumbed to sleep?

If I were to write a book titled La Difficulté d’Être,

I should have to include the alchemy of Radiguet’s

mouth: its fatality disguised in girandoles of saliva;

and I should have to say which parts of his body were

rotting beauty, and which were not, etc.

Radiguet wore his young man’s habit with the formality

of a necktie — it was to prove the hangman’s, a

cravate de chanvre (and mine, a necktie of opium) —

with an audacity to which you would naturally object

nowadays as foolhardy.

Were it not for his ability in keeping the fougue up

past its hour, he might have yielded much earlier in

the game.

The Anatomy of Balls.

The snowball Dargelos threw, which, due to the pain of

its impact, was suspected of concealing a stone.

The balls that were once heads, rolled onto

revolutionary streets and turning boules into a

popular pastime, down to this day.

The balls I have taken into my mouth: éclairs and

other affairs. The sweat of his billets doux.

Oh, Desbordes, Marais, Dermit, Khill!

The eastern cemetery, known by all and sundry as Père

Lachaise, is where this Heurtebise is buried.

It is Paris in miniature: an elegant mort-safe

society.

Princesse Bibesco has had a photograph of herself

propped up on an altar in her tomb; on its etiolated

pellicle, presumably, in her own hand, is written in

ink: “Hélas! je n’étais pas faite pour être morte.”

Apollinaire wears his calligrammes on his slade.

The Parisiennes have emasculated (why do I see Oscar’s

name in that word?) Epstein’s simurgh:

And alien tears will fill for him

Pity’s long broken urn.

For his mourners will be outcast men

And outcasts always mourn.

Delacroix lives his eternal life beneath a black bier

which belies the colors he invented (my favorite is

vert pisseux).

A young man, who has had his left shoulder (“I did it

for myself, even though I cannot see it”) tattooed

with one of my drawings, will be interred one day,

too; if not here, then at some other place.

And under a bush of yellow chrysanthemums, lies

Radiguet, “Poète et Romancier” (what need is there of

elaboration?).

Four years — postwar years — together, sharing what I

shall no longer call my “inquietude”; he drank, played

and only liked women.

Kavafis Sativa

a fleeting glimpse of your face

beneath a lamp’s reflection

face of burrowed cock another’s breath

and hand at first timorous wet

without touching yet not knowing

calmly traversing foreign speech

hands coveting a joint

beneath the rays of the streetlamp

lips in hot neck wine armpits mouth

and prick stiffness below waist wet

our looks could have met by chance

in deserted rooms above i could

have taken you there for pleasure

thighs those hands clutching your crotch

kissed navel reaching cock young throat

horny of adolescent burning mouth erect

hands coveting an ardent secret flame

and prick stiffness below waist wet

i could have exposed the beauty

of your eyes the locals already know

a fleeting glimpse of your face

face of burrowed cock anothers breath

and hand at first timorous wet

thighs those hands clutching your crotch