{"title":"Don't Look It Up","authors":"Min Li Chan","doi":"10.1353/ner.2022.0097","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ner.2022.0097","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":41449,"journal":{"name":"NEW ENGLAND REVIEW-MIDDLEBURY SERIES","volume":"43 1","pages":"16 - 26"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-01-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"49628690","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"In the Swirl","authors":"Carrie R. Moore","doi":"10.1353/ner.2022.0103","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ner.2022.0103","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":41449,"journal":{"name":"NEW ENGLAND REVIEW-MIDDLEBURY SERIES","volume":"43 1","pages":"100 - 84"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-01-06","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"41595472","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-01-01DOI: 10.1353/ner.2023.a908949
Brian Blanchfield
Holism, and: from New Year in Hot Springs Brian Blanchfield (bio) Holism I saw a chiropractor once who resembleda poet I loved who loved an older farmerwho was married to a woman insteadinstead. He had been a gymnast, a specialistin the rings, on the national team of a Baltic state.The chiropractor, that is. The poetbecame a distiller and is sought after nowfor his spirits. He lives in Ovid wherehe grows the grain, a Demeter of sorts. Ovid,New York. It was quite intimate, the session—holistic, he called it—in which I was askedto connect to some shame or regret or rageas he adjusted. I was to speak freely.I presented with some immobility,a lessening range in my shoulder girdle, whichhe explored while I lay or turned and gave overor said I did to the emotion. I wanted tobe a good case for him. It was their lashesand bovine eyes and overall compactnessthat they shared. To the poet I admittedmy crush, invited him to my dorm roomexpressly to do so. I remember we eachleaned our temples to the wood frame ofthe top bunk between request and letdown.Bodies mirror each other in empathy. I wanted himnot to feel bad not wanting me. He hada habit, funny now, and fell into it then:to unbutton his shirt when he spoke, especiallyabout poetry, the love we shared. Outsidethe loblolly pines shook free some snowand rebounded. The chiropractor stoodwhere my feet could press against his thighs,held them a little, and lit a final question:Have you, this winter, slipped and braced the fall [End Page 99] with your left hand, perhaps while holding,securing, protecting something in your right?I could not prop on my elbows so I staredstill at the ceiling, not yet reachingfor my shirt. I flashed on my fall down the stairsand the coffee all over the landingthat had splashed despite my grip on the mug.It had been two or three months since, andI had sprung up, not much hurt but stunned.It was as though he had choreographed it.How did you know that?Later, I'd have to stop seeing him, sincehis remedies were all wrong—a protractedprocess to overcome the conviction that I couldsurrender more to his sureness—but I don'tdeny the magic of his answer. Where it hurtsis how it happened. That is always true. [End Page 100] from New Year in Hot Springs i Two bald eagles I saw maybe a minuteapart flying west yesterday latemay be the two sparing effort I seegliding east this morning, against then intothe cloud that has chosen us as campus, crop.The white cat lightfoots it beneathmy car out front to hide from either a whitedog walked by a person or a gray cathaving a confident pee in the snow. I knowwhich of the four is me, trailing early,crouching watching. Window on the which I am.The hot water here at the sink and shower,in my hair is the same sulfur stink pouringinto the village pool from the simple hosewhich fills all Wednesday, and Thursday much.Have you ever heard Odetta. I listened toOdetta sings Dylan with my last hour,sipping, and I swear she stretches time, or—what—she washes time i
{"title":"Holism, and: from New Year in Hot Springs","authors":"Brian Blanchfield","doi":"10.1353/ner.2023.a908949","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ner.2023.a908949","url":null,"abstract":"Holism, and: from New Year in Hot Springs Brian Blanchfield (bio) Holism I saw a chiropractor once who resembleda poet I loved who loved an older farmerwho was married to a woman insteadinstead. He had been a gymnast, a specialistin the rings, on the national team of a Baltic state.The chiropractor, that is. The poetbecame a distiller and is sought after nowfor his spirits. He lives in Ovid wherehe grows the grain, a Demeter of sorts. Ovid,New York. It was quite intimate, the session—holistic, he called it—in which I was askedto connect to some shame or regret or rageas he adjusted. I was to speak freely.I presented with some immobility,a lessening range in my shoulder girdle, whichhe explored while I lay or turned and gave overor said I did to the emotion. I wanted tobe a good case for him. It was their lashesand bovine eyes and overall compactnessthat they shared. To the poet I admittedmy crush, invited him to my dorm roomexpressly to do so. I remember we eachleaned our temples to the wood frame ofthe top bunk between request and letdown.Bodies mirror each other in empathy. I wanted himnot to feel bad not wanting me. He hada habit, funny now, and fell into it then:to unbutton his shirt when he spoke, especiallyabout poetry, the love we shared. Outsidethe loblolly pines shook free some snowand rebounded. The chiropractor stoodwhere my feet could press against his thighs,held them a little, and lit a final question:Have you, this winter, slipped and braced the fall [End Page 99] with your left hand, perhaps while holding,securing, protecting something in your right?I could not prop on my elbows so I staredstill at the ceiling, not yet reachingfor my shirt. I flashed on my fall down the stairsand the coffee all over the landingthat had splashed despite my grip on the mug.It had been two or three months since, andI had sprung up, not much hurt but stunned.It was as though he had choreographed it.How did you know that?Later, I'd have to stop seeing him, sincehis remedies were all wrong—a protractedprocess to overcome the conviction that I couldsurrender more to his sureness—but I don'tdeny the magic of his answer. Where it hurtsis how it happened. That is always true. [End Page 100] from New Year in Hot Springs i Two bald eagles I saw maybe a minuteapart flying west yesterday latemay be the two sparing effort I seegliding east this morning, against then intothe cloud that has chosen us as campus, crop.The white cat lightfoots it beneathmy car out front to hide from either a whitedog walked by a person or a gray cathaving a confident pee in the snow. I knowwhich of the four is me, trailing early,crouching watching. Window on the which I am.The hot water here at the sink and shower,in my hair is the same sulfur stink pouringinto the village pool from the simple hosewhich fills all Wednesday, and Thursday much.Have you ever heard Odetta. I listened toOdetta sings Dylan with my last hour,sipping, and I swear she stretches time, or—what—she washes time i","PeriodicalId":41449,"journal":{"name":"NEW ENGLAND REVIEW-MIDDLEBURY SERIES","volume":"15 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"136206948","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2023-01-01DOI: 10.1353/ner.2023.a908957
Fang Xin
Four Etudes translated from the Chinese by the author i. these water willows' color Linda, do you like itthese water willowsthese water willows' color Linda, this is a swollen streamthis is spring, some little swirlsLinda, if you use young bamboo to fishtoo tender, too short, and there are no fish The stream runs so swiftI shall not wade, Lindado not weep silently Don't, don't, Lindaif you like, thencarve your words on green boughs When winter comes, in the fire grateflames shall read attentively Yes, when winter comessnow shall fallsnow shall cover our eyelidsour footprintswe shall gaze no more These water willowsleaves fallen on ice [End Page 168] Linda, do you like itthese water willowsthese water willows' color ii. snow falls so silently Snow falls so silentlysnow falls in the woodswhere sparrows won't lingerit is winter now, Linda Snow falls on your thick, thick black hairsnow is your white, white handkerchiefit falls on my shoulders, silently Your laughter is a basket of sweet chestnutsscattered by the well where I draw water every daywhen spring comes, will they sprout into new trees Snow is doing lacework on your skirt, Lindabright startwinkle in your eyes Where is my shadowfallen under your eyelashes, Lindawhy are you just standing there, not moving Quick, shape me into a plump snowmanLinda, shape you into one, too Snow is the most lovely indifference Yes, Linda, when spring comessnow shall melt usmemories shall melt toowe shall not stand, side by side, anymore Linda, when sparrows come to drink by the wellwhere shall squirrels go to pick up chestnuts [End Page 169] iii. little candles in the garden Don't light little candles in the garden, Lindadon't come looking for mecarrying your little lantern, either Lest you wake up the dreamless sunflowersand I, I am on the rooftop, under starlighttranscribing a book of scoreless music Maybe you have just been reading attentively, Lindajust let those diamonds fall, noiselessnow, isn't darkness another kind of lightmore serene, more boundless Night, if you feel cold, Lindait is like a big, big carpetwalk onto it slowly, Lindado not speak When the multicolored hustle bustle fallsinto deep, silent slumberlet the star-eaten skybe our cover iv. run barefoot, on the sand If forgetfulness is like an umbrella, Lindadon't fold up this harmonious indifference If it is in the woods, in the morningwhen cherries are green, Lindathere shall be birdsongs, always, washing down And the sun is warm, the breezes so velvetydo not fold up this harmonious indifference, Linda If forgetfulness is like an umbrellado not go launch paper boats, in the rainby the streamside where lilies clustershallow waters run wild [End Page 170] There shall be strange, tiny soundstapping your hairas you watch them twirl in the wavesand sink, one by one Nobody, not even the misty rainhas such tiny, tiny handsdon't let it tickle you, Linda If forgetfulness is like an umbrellajust let it go, with the wind When you run barefoot, on the sandt
{"title":"Four Etudes","authors":"Fang Xin","doi":"10.1353/ner.2023.a908957","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/ner.2023.a908957","url":null,"abstract":"Four Etudes translated from the Chinese by the author i. these water willows' color Linda, do you like itthese water willowsthese water willows' color Linda, this is a swollen streamthis is spring, some little swirlsLinda, if you use young bamboo to fishtoo tender, too short, and there are no fish The stream runs so swiftI shall not wade, Lindado not weep silently Don't, don't, Lindaif you like, thencarve your words on green boughs When winter comes, in the fire grateflames shall read attentively Yes, when winter comessnow shall fallsnow shall cover our eyelidsour footprintswe shall gaze no more These water willowsleaves fallen on ice [End Page 168] Linda, do you like itthese water willowsthese water willows' color ii. snow falls so silently Snow falls so silentlysnow falls in the woodswhere sparrows won't lingerit is winter now, Linda Snow falls on your thick, thick black hairsnow is your white, white handkerchiefit falls on my shoulders, silently Your laughter is a basket of sweet chestnutsscattered by the well where I draw water every daywhen spring comes, will they sprout into new trees Snow is doing lacework on your skirt, Lindabright startwinkle in your eyes Where is my shadowfallen under your eyelashes, Lindawhy are you just standing there, not moving Quick, shape me into a plump snowmanLinda, shape you into one, too Snow is the most lovely indifference Yes, Linda, when spring comessnow shall melt usmemories shall melt toowe shall not stand, side by side, anymore Linda, when sparrows come to drink by the wellwhere shall squirrels go to pick up chestnuts [End Page 169] iii. little candles in the garden Don't light little candles in the garden, Lindadon't come looking for mecarrying your little lantern, either Lest you wake up the dreamless sunflowersand I, I am on the rooftop, under starlighttranscribing a book of scoreless music Maybe you have just been reading attentively, Lindajust let those diamonds fall, noiselessnow, isn't darkness another kind of lightmore serene, more boundless Night, if you feel cold, Lindait is like a big, big carpetwalk onto it slowly, Lindado not speak When the multicolored hustle bustle fallsinto deep, silent slumberlet the star-eaten skybe our cover iv. run barefoot, on the sand If forgetfulness is like an umbrella, Lindadon't fold up this harmonious indifference If it is in the woods, in the morningwhen cherries are green, Lindathere shall be birdsongs, always, washing down And the sun is warm, the breezes so velvetydo not fold up this harmonious indifference, Linda If forgetfulness is like an umbrellado not go launch paper boats, in the rainby the streamside where lilies clustershallow waters run wild [End Page 170] There shall be strange, tiny soundstapping your hairas you watch them twirl in the wavesand sink, one by one Nobody, not even the misty rainhas such tiny, tiny handsdon't let it tickle you, Linda If forgetfulness is like an umbrellajust let it go, with the wind When you run barefoot, on the sandt","PeriodicalId":41449,"journal":{"name":"NEW ENGLAND REVIEW-MIDDLEBURY SERIES","volume":"1 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-01-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"136207140","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"文学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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