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. Six Poems by Jane Goldman  


Lady Lazarus Has Wheels

You should have known
the rough beast
would make you
turn on the gas;

and answered the ad
of an Anna Blume
(Cylinders Farm
is crowless:

no kunst
to bother you,
but a barn
full of Merz).

Turn blue spokes
red, go Deutsch
shelling yellow

into the dusk.
What say the people?
Lady Lazarus
has wheels!


We wore (red)
lipstick (drop-dead) avec pendant cigarette;
diamanted, gin-martinied (olive-stillhettoed)—
all high-stem gilded; lush black fan-tailed
frocks, all cocktailed, jet-beaded, backlessed;
exhumed refuge, slash-sleeved, plunged
taffeta, drop-weighted at the hem; skirts fad-
ed, gold-spun, bias cut

found our fragment selves (collect-
ing here, now) lit red, showered lavender,
twisting in the twisting electric vector
our mirror ball lifting the Miro in us all,
our universal Picasso, our luminous piss-
translucent walls aglow with the barely
known mothers of us all (WoolfenStein)

and Money’s Too Tight (To Mention)
belts out—Valentine Brothers— and
lovers in the next room play Fever
at thirty-three revolutions per minute,
then 78,
spread rain-stained coats, red-lined.

Out-stretched arms, up-raised hands
cut at the cruel night—
jive-signing the peace.
Stand Down Margaret warred with Mack
the Knife—torn fish-netted scar-
lets kicked like sharks, birled in D
Ms (de rigeur); rude stars studded,
sickle moons embossed limp lapels
(enfolding black halter-necked crepe);
powder pinked cowboys tracked cactus across shirt
collars, rode high as if what we wore—dis-
avowing metaphor, worn dishabille,
the dead’s fretted retros—rode us.



Fifty minutes to break.

My body, like the building, talks
to me in twinges, takes
twenty minutes to numb pressure
points. My foot is my clock.

Days dissected by silent weight
invisibly shifting,
parcels of hip-strain and knee-

Standing flesh weeps;
grinds from stasis a sweat.

Trickles chance from lip, pit, breast.

Hot springs cool along my spine.


Naked and nothing I live an hour
in my ribs and right thigh. I stand hip-

locked come break time, mustn’t move from here
before the chalking of the feet to the floor

anchors empty columns pinning air
down to ghost portals I’ll fall into ten

minutes later.
                  Shove out an old wall
for the feel of that catch in that hip

flex a blade then settle the ribs and load
my thigh. Naked I place my jar


a space to think in naked
anchored to the hourly rate

drift in absent taxi (space, heat, light)

no it’s not for the simulacra of has been
not the endlessness of vain

but a space we forge here in studio

is why the figurative is
for the model (always abstract)

You would probably prefer Mahler or Gershwin

driving into winter sun
you made me cry

you suddenly in the back seat,
blue felt hat over
one eye, just quietly watching –

the long shadow you liked to cast
in your last photographs of you;

the gold bars and black stripes
of November on the road.


Too Bad Aubade

Listen to the light pour on morning.
This is the blue brink of lavender.

Inky (chilli-forced) olives steal up stem
of warm matutinal martini, breach

the meniscus of vermouth that tops
your gin— slide to meet the tiptouch

of this tongue.


                Will it revive (the corn
after the cows)?  Delay the lost night’s

shoddy in new splendour? The day queens
blue dullness, just too bad for an aubade.

Listen to the light pour on morning.
Pale stains, half gone stones, a recce

of listless voices. Beyond the sunning
cupola glisten bloodshot corners.

This is lavender blue. What does it take,
dilly dilly, to wake you up?

In Admiration of the Maître

The willingness to listen for these words in the now;
Music on a wee, brass scaff.