All eyeballs dipped in the vinegar of the bourgeoisie will become pickled eyeballs.

Tonight I embrace my homeland. Being blind would not matter as long as I could give my eyeballs to you.

I have embraced all the railways and all trains are still on the way to you. I have embraced all the oceans and all ships are still on the way to you. I have embraced all books and all histories are still on the way to you.

They seek my eyeballs so as to be able to see the second revolution.

For years they have been on alert, and the overflow of tears from their eyes has turned to vinegar. You are the tapper. You are the one who readies the holding vessels.

But why do you sharpen your spurs if not to pluck out my eyeballs?

If I become blind tomorrow, you will only be able to sell your vinegar to the proletariat.

Therefore, come this way. Be the eyes for our blind love, me and my homeland. Break your vessels at the Museum of the Revolution, which is only half completed.

from the journal ASYMPTOTE 
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In my decades as a translator of Indonesian literature, rarely have I come across a poet-author as culturally erudite as Nirwan Dewanto. His exhaustive knowledge of Indonesian history is equally matched by his grasp of Western tropes and metaphors.

John H. McGlynn on "The Way to the Museum"
Headshot of Phillip B. Williams and cover of Ours.
"Ten Questions for Phillip B. Williams"

"My process of writing Ours was basically one long free-write. I didn't have an outline; so much of the plot revealed itself to me as I was writing. This posed an interesting problem: I felt that I both guided the story and was guided by it. Imagine me pacing my home, talking aloud to no one present (except in my mind), asking, 'Are you sure you want to do that?' Then I would write the scene and shake my head in disbelief that a character wanted to do that."

viaPOETS & WRITERS
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Cover of Fog and Smoke
What Sparks Poetry:
Katie Peterson on Other Arts


"I find this to be common with poems, which are like my favorite kind of children – give them a job to do, and they'd rather do anything else. But give them nothing to do, and they hate you. A poem ends up being equal parts what you must do and what you want to do, but in a way, with a proportion, inhabiting a mood you can't predict. A map offers a perfect occasion for this, since, like a family portrait, what it leaves in points towards what it leaves out. The poem became about everything the map couldn't record."
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