The beauty of the immigrant’s many tongues mixing


Immigrant Picnic
—by Gregory Djanikian—

It’s the Fourth of July, the flags
are painting the town,
the plastic forks and knives
are laid out like a parade.

And I’m grilling, I’ve got my apron,
I’ve got potato salad, macaroni, relish,
I’ve got a hat shaped
like the state of Pennsylvania.

I ask my father what’s his pleasure
and he says, “Hot dog, medium rare,”
and then, “Hamburger, sure,
what’s the big difference,”
as if he’s really asking.

I put on hamburgers and hot dogs,
slice up the sour pickles and Bermudas,
uncap the condiments. The paper napkins
are fluttering away like lost messages.

“You’re running around,” my mother says,
“like a chicken with its head loose.”

“Ma,” I say, “you mean cut off,
loose and cut off being as far apart
as, say, son and daughter.”

She gives me a quizzical look as though
I’ve been caught in some impropriety.
“I love you and your sister just the same,” she says,
“Sure,” my grandmother pipes in,
“you’re both our children, so why worry?”

That’s not the point I begin telling them,
and I’m comparing words to fish now,
like the ones in the sea at Port Said,
or like birds among the date palms by the Nile,
unrepentantly elusive, wild.

“Sonia,” my father says to my mother,
“what the hell is he talking about?”
“He’s on a ball,” my mother says.

“That’s roll!” I say, throwing up my hands,
“as in hot dog, hamburger, dinner roll….”

“And what about roll out the barrels?” my mother asks,
and my father claps his hands, “Why sure,” he says,
“let’s have some fun,” and launches
into a polka, twirling my mother
around and around like the happiest top,

and my uncle is shaking his head, saying
“You could grow nuts listening to us,”

and I’m thinking of pistachios in the Sinai
burgeoning without end,
pecans in the South, the jumbled
flavor of them suddenly in my mouth,
wordless, confusing,
crowding out everything else.



This month marks 15 years of American involvement in Afghanistan


In that Part of the World
—by Raza Ali Hasan


The sky here is American like the blue of your eyes;
the folds of your eyelids the Hindu Kush mountain.

The rich vein of the Hindu Kush only a stony ridge
cutting across the parched soil of Afghanistan

on which the primal play of progress comes to pass.


Locked in, its people:
nomadic, peasant or simply pleasant,
green-eyed, blue-eyed, brown-eyed or simply wide-eyed.

Its great teacher: Noor Mohammad Taraki,
the proud translator of great works
into Pashto, Dari, Turkic and Uzbek.
Its cities: Herat, Kabul, Kandahar.


Assuredly, the pilgrims descend the emerald-strewn
Panjsher valley. They have come to water and tend

a young tree. Time is at hand, for the unhurried
descent of the Western offering,

whose yellow parachute will slow its fall.
And this tree, which will grow underneath the cluster bomb,
will hold up the pomegranate to the blue sky.


The tick tock and whirr of metal and material
in the hidden azure vault of the air

has so far unleashed the American ahistoricality
upon the two tall Bamiyan Buddhas.

Ordained stone must give way to bared rock face.
Grieve not. Rejoice, for the spirit triumphs here.


When Kabul was as beautiful as Leningrad,
when our hearts hadn’t grown weary,
when Taraki could take a stroll down
the streets of Kabul with a confident smile,
when he could still be Afghanistan’s Maxim Gorky,
when our erstwhile bachelor could enjoy
the company of dancing girls like a mogul emperor,
when the way forward was the way forward.


The uncertain exile is never to Rome—
no picture postcards of the coliseum to send home—

but to a mud hovel among other mud hovels
by the edge of the city of Islamabad.

For the uncertain exile has nothing to do
with the divine or with any other kind of comedy,

but with what has remained or with what reminds:
with the trace of terror that persists.


In this part of the world the children know and have desires
to be a martyr, to enter paradise, to leave this life.

Of the twenty-nine different names for the garden,
they know all twenty-nine by heart.

For this part of the world began with a garden and
will end as an open ditch piled up with bodies.


Grant me Antigone’s strength to forbear
for the sun has come unstuck from a blue sky gone black,

stolen for effect, and the veiled moon stands in,
for the mourning women standing next to platters of rice,

signifying the historically sound end of forgetfulness,
returning our agency to mourn

the collaborations of the merchant capitalist class
with the unlistening, ahistorical God.


If only Gandhi’s spinning wheel had spun
a million yards of cloth

we would have covered all our war dead.
And as for tents, we would have built

cities upon cities of tents to keep the rain out
for all our refugees. And then and only then

would we have mourned our war dead,
mourned our war dead.

The hospitality of writing

Billy Collins, ars poetica:

Collins has described himself as “reader conscious”: “I have one reader in mind, someone who is in the room with me, and who I’m talking to, and I want to make sure I don’t talk too fast, or too glibly. Usually I try to create a hospitable tone at the beginning of a poem. Stepping from the title to the first lines is like stepping into a canoe. A lot of things can go wrong.” Collins further related: “I think my work has to do with a sense that we are attempting, all the time, to create a logical, rational path through the day. To the left and right there are an amazing set of distractions that we usually can’t afford to follow. But the poet is willing to stop anywhere.”

from Poetry Foundation


Someone said they heard me sing
behind your voicemail,
in the seconds between your crotch
and the hot coffee they caught me
giggle before you screamed.
That is, of course, insane.
It is just as balls as you thinking
I’m the one sexting your girlfriend
my dog’s freshly neutered scrotum;
which of course I am not
and neither am I the one still shredding
my heart to Nina Simone;
that is all just you.
Good old you unribboning
the heartache you surprised me with.
I am but minding my own business,
coaxing wings out of my mess,
I could not be bothered less about you
and the fake lacy cups
of her new peephole bra,
I’m just the messenger of your message,
killing me won’t help.



first published in The Columbia Review