Empty streets, even our taxi
is missing, but the train station
is crowded. I comb
my hair, looking at
the reflection
in the ticket window.
By J. J. STARR
in faith i pray for you…
i wasn’t aware of you
i think of you free
a song a night you…
pieces, i can share
just some with you…
April brings new poems by our contributors: SHARON DOLIN, KERRY JAMES EVANS, ANDREW HUDGINS, AND MARIA TERRONE!
Sharon Dolin, Kerry James Evans, Andrew Hudgins, Maria Terrone (from left to right)
Table of Contents:
—Sharon Dolin, “Savor”
—Kerry James Evans, “Smoky”
—Andrew Hudgins, “After Death”
—Maria Terrone, “Alchemy”
April is poetry month! To kick it off, we have new poems by our contributors, CARSON WOLFE, BENJAMIN PALOFF, and JEHANNE DUBROW!
Jehanne Dubrow (left), Carson Wolfe (center), and Benjamin Paloff (right)
Table of Contents:
—Jehanne Dubrow, “Encounter” and “Winter Rye”
—Benjamin Paloff, “Of the Art of Conferring”
—Carson Wolfe, “I Rank Places by How Much They Charge for Pringles”
By CONSTANTINE P. CAVAFY
Translated from the Greek by CONSTANTINE CONTOGENIS
Poem appears in both English and Greek below.
Translator’s Note:
In translating Cavafy I was most absorbed and, at times, confused by his irony. People make ironic points—no confusion. But some of Cavafy’s irony does not come to a sharp point. I call this unresolved irony, which adds to but doesn’t settle the semantic and emotional atmosphere. The experience of reacting to the irony in the context of its poem can be frustrating. Instead of crystalizing our understanding, or, as a kind of compass, leading us to the author’s side, the irony works within a poem to help create an experience of widening awareness, giving us a touch of wisdom.
— Constantine Contogenis
This month we are happy to bring you “the decorations,” a meditation on Monet at Giverny, by long-time TC-contributor PETER FILKINS.
Peter Filkins
This month we welcome SHANE MORAN to our pages for the first time, and we welcome back FATIMAH ASGHAR; both poets have poems forthcoming in the print journal. Gratitude to both poets from all of us at TC.
Table of Contents:
—Fatimah Asghar: “[madness]” and “[pagamento]”
—Shane Moran: “Cedar of Lebanon” and “Les Docks / Chatelet”
This poem is republished from Water & Salt by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, a guest at Amherst College’s eleventh annual literary festival. Register and see the full list of LitFest 2026 events here.
Do not name your daughters Shaymaa,
courage will march them
into the bullet path of dictators.
Do not name them Sundus,
the garden of paradise calls out to its marigolds,
gathers its green leaves up in its embrace.
Do not name your children Malak or Raneem,
angels want the companionship of others like them,
their silvery wings trailing the filth of jail cells,
the trill of their laughter a call to prayer.
These poems are republished from suddenly we by Evie Shockley, a guest at Amherst College’s eleventh annual literary festival. Register and see the full list of LitFest 2026 events here.
perched
i am black, comely,
a girl on the cusp of desire.
my dangling toes take the rest
the rest of my body refuses. spine upright,
my pose proposes anticipation. i poise
in copper-colored tension, intent on
manifesting my soul in the discouraging world.
Translated by DANIEL CARDEN NEMO
Translator’s note
Marin Sorescu, despite being one of the most translated Romanian writers, is one of the literary world’s best kept secrets. The reason for it, to my mind, lies squarely in the quality of existing English translations, as many of them have failed to capture his poetic essence. Twice nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature, he never received the award based on his translated work.
Like many of his poems, “Map” reveals Sorescu’s depth of thought and highly associative mind, and above all his ability to convey the most complex emotions and contemplations into a multi-layered poetry that remains accessible to all. The challenge in the translation here comes from the ability to convey an intimate, almost didactic exploration of the body, revealing the speaker’s vulnerability as he opens himself up for in(tro)spection. The body becomes a cartographic landscape, with known and uncharted areas, while the self is a terrain molded by time, animated by the soul, and inevitably oriented toward death. The poem blends stark physicality with cosmic metaphysics, suggesting that human identity, just like the Earth’s geography, contains vastness, complexity, and the unknowable. It is consciousness which imbues the world with dynamism. Without internal life, and perhaps without poetry, existence becomes static, ornamental.
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