The International Literary Quarterly

August 2008


Daniel Albright
Meena Alexander
David Dabydeen
Alice Fulton
Richard McKane
Jonathan Morley
Michael Schmidt
Tuğrul Tanyol
Alan Wall
Marina Warner
Edwin Williamson
Xu Xi
Gao Xingjian

Founding Editor: Peter Robertson
Art Editor: Calum Colvin
Consulting Editor: Marjorie Agosín
Consulting Editor: Jill Dawson
Consulting Editor: Beatriz Hausner
Consulting Editor: Mimi Khalvati
Consulting Editor: Suzanne Jill Levine
Associate Editor: Neil Langdon Inglis
Assistant Editor:
Jeff Barry
Assistant Editor: Ana de Biase
Assistant Editor: Sophie Lewis
Issue 4 Guest Artist: Arturo Di Stefano

Click to enlarge picture Click to enlarge picture. Three Poems by Daniel Albright  


In that low
land where to look up is vertigo:
slide down the steep
slope where is
only a frictionless long gliss
into a deeper deep;
but there are no words for steep or deep in sleep.

Textual History

I.  First Line:
            a.  Mice and bison frisk on the lawn
            b.  Gridlock of bison on the plain
            c.  Congress: “Exterminate all the brutes!”
            d.  There aren't any any more.

II.  Second Line:
            a.  but the grouse ate the mouse and the time ate the rhyme:
            b.  with many a plaintive moo.
            c.  Then came a mix-up.
            d.  Because of nothing in particular.

III.  Third Line:
            a.  Danced Dan the Tan Man
            b.  Unlike General Custer
            c.  Wild Bill Hickock
            d.  Nobody did it.

IV.  Fourth Line:
            a.  in the Land of Authority.
            b.  they had manes with little luster.
            c.  shot the bison, not the Sioux.
            d.  And the skies are not cloudy all day.


Dictated by Donne

And as a tartar King, in wolfskin coat,
Come to England, turns his eye, must strut, stalk, gloat,
Contemn the spoon-like women, blast the small men,
All while th' interpreter, with voice serene,
Tells how his master likes our English rose,
So translate me ill, God my God, and glose
My catachreses into thy faultless prose;                                                                     
My virtues spell in rubrics double-size,
My vices, Lord, I beg thee euphemize;
That, rewritten to a ghost upon the Last
Day I might ever laud thee, Paraphrast!