The International Literary Quarterly

February 2010


Rose Ausländer
Charles Bernstein
Amy Bloom
Jean Boase-Beier
Carmen Bugan
Moira Burgess
Larry Butler
James Byrne
Jim Carruth
Neil Charleton
Ronald Christ
A.C. Clarke
David Dawnay
Patricia Delmar
Des Dillon
Anne Donovan
Gerrie Fellows
Cheryl Follon
Ronald Frame
Hazel Frew
Rodge Glass
David Goldie
Jane Goldman
Martin Goodman
Siobhan Harvey
Beatriz Hausner
Kusay Hussein
A.B. Jackson
Kapka Kassabova
Velimir Khlebnikov
David Kinloch
Micaela Lewitt
Zhimin Li
Gerry Loose
James McGonigal
Gerry McGrath
Donal McLaughlin
Kate McLoughlin
Andrea McNicoll
Willy Maley
Peter Manson
Laura Marney
Ernst Meister
Lina Meruane
Edwin Morgan
Ewan Morrison
Laura Muetzelfeldt
Hom Paribag
Mario Petrucci
Clare Pollard
Sheila Puri
Claire Quigley
Elizabeth Reeder
Alan Riach
Dilys Rose
Suhayl Saadi
Sue Reid Sexton
Bina Shah
Yasir Shah
Jim Stewart
Zoë Strachan
Chiew-Siah Tei
Valerie Thornton
Anthony Vivis
Marshall Walker
Zoë Wicomb
Xu Xi

40 Glasgow Voices

Volta: A Multilingual Anthology
(One poem: 82 languages)

Issue 10 Guest Artist:
John Hoyland RA

Founding Editor: Peter Robertson
Deputy Editor: Jill Dawson
Art Editor: Calum Colvin

Consulting Editors
Marjorie Agosín
Daniel Albright
Meena Alexander
Maria Teresa Andruetto
Frank Ankersmit
Rosemary Ashton
Reza Aslan
Leonard Barkan
Michael Barry
Shadi Bartsch
Thomas Bartscherer
Susan Bassnett
Gillian Beer
David Bellos
Richard Berengarten
Charles Bernstein
Sujata Bhatt
Mario Biagioli
Jean Boase-Beier
Elleke Boehmer
Eavan Boland
Stephen Booth
Alain de Botton
Carmen Boulossa
Rachel Bowlby
Svetlana Boym
Peter Brooks
Marina Brownlee
Roberto Brodsky
Carmen Bugan
Jenni Calder
Stanley Cavell
Hollis Clayson
Sarah Churchwell
Kristina Cordero
Drucilla Cornell
Junot Díaz
André Dombrowski
Denis Donoghue
Ariel Dorfman
Rita Dove
Denise Duhamel
Klaus Ebner
Robert Elsie
Stefano Evangelista
Orlando Figes
Tibor Fischer
Shelley Fisher Fishkin
Peter France
Nancy Fraser
Maureen Freely
Michael Fried
Marjorie Garber
Anne Garréta
Marilyn Gaull
Zulfikar Ghose
Paul Giles
Lydia Goehr
Vasco Graça Moura
A. C. Grayling
Stephen Greenblatt
Lavinia Greenlaw
Lawrence Grossberg
Edith Grossman
Elizabeth Grosz
Boris Groys
David Harsent
Benjamin Harshav
Geoffrey Hartman
François Hartog
Molly Haskell
Selina Hastings
Beatriz Hausner
Valerie Henitiuk
Kathryn Hughes
Aamer Hussein
Djelal Kadir
Kapka Kassabova
John Kelly
Martin Kern
Mimi Khalvati
Joseph Koerner
Annette Kolodny
Julia Kristeva
George Landow
Chang-Rae Lee
Mabel Lee
Linda Leith
Suzanne Jill Levine
Lydia Liu
Margot Livesey
Julia Lovell
Willy Maley
Alberto Manguel
Ben Marcus
Paul Mariani
Marina Mayoral
Richard McCabe
Campbell McGrath
Jamie McKendrick
Edie Meidav
Jack Miles
Toril Moi
Susana Moore
Laura Mulvey
Azar Nafisi
Martha Nussbaum
Sari Nusseibeh
Tim Parks
Clare Pettitt
Caryl Phillips
Robert Pinsky
Elena Poniatowska
Elizabeth Powers
Elizabeth Prettejohn
Martin Puchner
Kate Pullinger
Paula Rabinowitz
Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
James Richardson
François Rigolot
Geoffrey Robertson
Ritchie Robertson
Avital Ronell
Carla Sassi
Michael Scammell
Celeste Schenck
Sudeep Sen
Hadaa Sendoo
Miranda Seymour
Mimi Sheller
Elaine Showalter
Penelope Shuttle
Werner Sollors
Frances Spalding
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak
Julian Stallabrass
Susan Stewart
Rebecca Stott
Mark Strand
Kathryn Sutherland
John Whittier Treat
David Treuer
David Trinidad
Marjorie Trusted
Lidia Vianu
Victor Vitanza
Marina Warner
David Wellbery
Edwin Williamson
Michael Wood
Theodore Zeldin

Associate Editor: Jeff Barry
Associate Editor: Neil Langdon Inglis
Assistant Editor: Ana de Biase
Assistant Editor: Sophie Lewis
Assistant Editor: Siska Rappé
Art Consultant: Angie Roytgolz

Click to enlarge picture Click to enlarge picture. Two Poems by David Goldie  



Shuffling the pack, getting the psychic ducks in a row,
The odd realignment of the deck chairs.
On Fridays I set about putting my mind in order,
Look out across the windows
And the working week becomes the view.

Not a meadow with its tiresome buttercup meliorations
And knotted green integument.
Something more haphazard – the kind of city
Spread below my perch among the books,
That mess of old red sandstone and slate,
Poured concrete and crabby winter trees
Shirricked into passable streets
And plausible stabs at avenues.

Old fears and anxiousness, the crowd,
The crowing insanities of the office jargon jockeys,
Settle into a rough semi-order
Of staggered tenemented lines and unkiltered crescents.
Not quite resolved, but tractable ground for a mind map
Or the afternoon rambles of a psycho-geographer.

Such a city state of mind is wordscape too, let me warn,
A mediocre poem in which the week attempts
To walk its ways through the settlements of the tongue,
To map shanty towns and rank prosaic conurbations,
Shape passages to lead us back to our civic selves.

So now, and once again now,
My feet feel a way
Down the clanking mental fire escape
To the street, start to stumble,
Try and fail to beat some sense into my week, this place.


Paisley Weavers  (At Sma’ Shot Cottage, Paisley)

How did it feel to animate
These awkward wooden frames,
To sit on a winter’s afternoon
With a dreich sky skeined low
Over Shuttle Street, Paisley,
And shuffle frosted clouds of breath
Between the warp and weft of the
Coarse cloth spread across this loom?
To work a passage from this room
To the New St. Kirk-yard over the way,
A criss-crossed million threads
The patterned shrouding of your days;
Time the ruthless click clack
Of the patient treadle going forward and back.

Surely to God they must have fucked about
And let things rip, you think,
The tenants of this emptied space;
Shaken loose from time to time
Their measured, manufactured lives
In misrule and unravelling,
Have drunk themselves maroculous
And flashed a swatch of hairy arse
At Baillie, laird, and councillor;
Just once or twice have lived a little,
Like a bit snapped off from Breughel
Or like Roberts Fergusson and Burns.

For weren’t the weavers radicals
And firebrands? A folk,
When time and chance gave leave,
Who waxed in millenarian hope
Of that paradisal life on earth,
A home-spun Utopia on the River Cart?

So why, then, does this room,
With its skeletal loom
And its hard wood recessed beds
And heavy artless furniture
Feel so blankly sabbatarian?
So uselessly utilitarian?

What hint here of Paisley Pattern's
Oriental brilliance and lustrousness,
The eyes fired with the luxuries of other worlds?

These cold plaster walls won't help:
For all they have attended and stood witness to
They give back nothing,
Offer for investment
Of time or interest
No return.

Unrelieved by ornament, resonantly empty,
They are spotless and joyless and tight-lipped;
Are immaculately, impeccably Presbyterian.