{"title":"Glose for My Son, and: Glose for Fathers","authors":"Elizabeth Hazen","doi":"10.1353/thr.2023.a911566","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/thr.2023.a911566","url":null,"abstract":"Glose for My Son, and: Glose for Fathers Elizabeth Hazen (bio) Glose for My Son But I felt: you are an I,you are an Elizabeth,you are one of them.Why should you be one, too? —Elizabeth Bishop It's true that sometimes everything feelslike an antechamber to something else—I've been waiting in a room stocked with magazines,glossy suggestions of who I might have been,of where, someday, I tell myself I'll travel.The waiting is torture, but I tryto model patience, try not to check the clock.The ultrasound reveals a pulsing blob, a thinginside me, but not me. I did not cry,but I felt: you are an I, a thing distinct from othersand yet—this other one inside me,waiting as I wait. How long beforeour names are called, before we are summonedor released or merely recognized?My labor was short, your first breath—that raspy wail—just three hours aftermy water broke. Once it started, I couldn't goback, my separateness a kind of death:you are an Elizabeth, I told myself, and he is not you—butfor years your grassy scent, your chatter, tetheredme to this earth, assured me I belong. Nowyou are old enough to lock your door.Time teaches us patience for wantof an alternative, but we are all bile and phlegm [End Page 24] and blood pulsing with desperation.When you were small, the heft of you restored me,redeemed the humanity I condemned:you are one of them— but now I feel you leaving. Alreadyyou reject the endless waiting, the bowingdown to a withholding world. The atlasis your itinerary, each pagea destination. Your wanderlust inspiresadvice I give us both: pursuethe things you love. Don't confuse patiencewith complacency. I have been a cowardfor too long, waiting, asking What do I do?Why should you be one, too? [End Page 25] Glose for Fathers Speaking indifferently to him,who had driven out the coldand polished my good shoes as well.What did I know, what did I know . . . —Robert Hayden What I mean to say is that all fathersbear the burden of their children'sblame. Bedtime stories promised usprotection, but gave no guidanceabout dangers we brought on ourselves.How could he save us from every whimto fight or steal or dull the edges withthis shot, that pill? Yet our angerbubbled. We were disasters, spitting at the brim,speaking indifferently to him to hide our hurt. Shall we catalogour grievances? Did one concern money?Lack of attention? Lack of love?Did we sense we were not good enough?Against the brick wall, he held me,eyes sharp with fear, in a chokeholdto save me from my own flailing fury,his hand around my throat more embracethan assault. My father, suddenly old,who had driven out the cold and taught me the physics requiredto move through time and space,had never held me with such forcebefore. I'll take this as a kind of love.What I mean to say is how can weknow what circumstances may compel [End Page 26] a man to act? For years, I'd been partof the audience, his presence like a poster.I ironed my best dress, as under a spell,and polished my good shoes as well, for e","PeriodicalId":485043,"journal":{"name":"The Hopkins Review","volume":"4 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135738079","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"When They Happen to Unite, and: Itakapo Kukutana","authors":"Muyaka bin Haji al-Ghassaniy","doi":"10.1353/thr.2023.a911564","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/thr.2023.a911564","url":null,"abstract":"When They Happen to Unite, and: Itakapo Kukutana Muyaka bin Haji al-Ghassaniy (bio) Translated from the Swahili by Richard Prins When They Happen to Unite Macho lions, classy chicks, listen to my lecture.I've been sticking to the sticks, traveling in my trawler.But today I miss my skiff, which I can sail for pleasure.O gift and its receiver, when they happen to unite! O receiver and his gift, making him prosperous.Even if he's just a waif, we quake if he passes us.But having a grand estate is asking for loneliness.O sickness and heartiness, when they happen to unite! O heartiness and sickness. A healthy man's a nuisance!Going on distant treks, racking up accomplishments.He sees himself as perfect and basks in his arrogance.O spirit and existence, when they happen to unite! O existence and spirit, when they conceive a human,For splendor so exquisite, he thanks the one who made him.When meeting His Holiness, no blade-thin bridge delays him.O paradise and person, when they happen to unite! O person and paradise, whoever is admittedDoes well to seek advice; the Prophet grants forgiveness.He sees whatever he likes, eats whatever he wishes.O heart and all its blisses, when they happen to unite! O bliss and mortal heart; happy people luminesce.An experience of mirth, where every wish is blessed.Whoever knows their worth radiates no wickedness.O incense and ambergris, when they happen to unite! O ambergris and incense, the Prophet's favorite fragrance,Who burns it with persistence, his merit will be written.He gets whatever he wants, and what he wants will get him.O silvery and golden, when they happen to unite! [End Page 16] O gold as well as silver, the classic commoditiesTurn us into debtors, too precious to give freely.Few are the distributors, and never complimentary.O wheat as well as ghee, when they happen to unite! O ghee along with wheat, the best comestibles,From distant vicinities, Bhavnagar and Portugal.Give a friend a bite to eat, the Lord will make you whole.O sugar, and milk as well, when they happen to unite! O milk as well as sugar, which fills a man with passion.A sick man will recover, and finally walk again,Going about with vigor, strutting the latest fashions.O spoken word and action, when they happen to unite! O action and spoken word, a promise within reason.If promises are deferred, that's the grace of a patron.Patrons shouldn't be pestered, no matter how affluent.O mare and manly lion, when they happen to unite! O manly lion and mare, when they come racing by,Feeling the door ajar, then panting their way inside.Like surf on the rocks they roar, a tussle that terrifies.O mirror and piercing eyes, when they happen to unite! O piercing eyes and mirror, may holy light glisten!Empowering the obscure, then letting you see again.Just like a dazzling sapphire or any similar gem.O nose and odorous scent, when they happen to unite! O aroma and nose, they leave each other flustered,The day we recite our poems with fierce competitors,Anyone ","PeriodicalId":485043,"journal":{"name":"The Hopkins Review","volume":"26 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135737290","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"The Living Daylights or A Passage to Indiana, and: All His Fascist Wants, and: Hidden Valley Ranch, and: Quarantine Bardo","authors":"Jaswinder Bolina","doi":"10.1353/thr.2023.a911574","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/thr.2023.a911574","url":null,"abstract":"The Living Daylights or A Passage to Indiana, and: All His Fascist Wants, and: Hidden Valley Ranch, and: Quarantine Bardo Jaswinder Bolina (bio) The Living Daylights or A Passage to Indiana \"I'll beat the living daylights out of you,\"she says, his blond head banged up against the blackboard, his collar squirtingblue between her brown knuckles, but later that summer, their pinkies grazein the chlorinated heat of the Park District pool. Their hands clasp sweaty beneatha picnic table outside the Super Dawg. Endorphin, milkshake, endorphin,cheese fry, she feels the first warm sphincter-tingle of love. O hormonallight, the nights chirp through her nightly until the morning of the Fourth whenhe randomly dumps her for Nicole Something-Or-Other in the gazebobehind the war memorial. Fuck, mutters the gut through its nauseous hollows.Puke, burble the heart's gory hydraulics. Nothing will ever be good again, she thinks.But she chuckles thinking on it now, so many election cycles later, at the umber endof summer, thinking on him and Nicole maybe together still in a bungalow somewhere, [End Page 68] Fort Wayne maybe, teeming with plump little Something-Or-Others, toaster wafflesand coffee, their table gummy with syrup, their youngest babbling something maybe,their youngest named maybe sentimentally for her: plump little Sukhdeep KaurSomething-Or-Other in her highchair. And I'll bet you something, she thinks.I'll bet she's their favorite. [End Page 69] All His Fascist Wants \"It's as if we want to believe the fascistis entirely the man on TV when the fascist is mostly the man watching the man on TV wanting what the fascist wants,\"I'd been telling the boy when he broke squealing free of the containment zone we'd attemptedaround the tub and hurtled through the naked chambers of our modest regime. We were hopeless then to stop him,we said to each other, so mad were we with affection at his indomitable overthrow, his adorable unrelenting. After all, we said,we'd invited him into this rapt world, and the world is all he wanted. [End Page 70] Hidden Valley Ranch The night mare trotted into a clearingwhere I'd fallen asleep, her clackety wagon filled with snakesand shame and everything precious to me. I should've done something,but I kept snoozing like a drunk Sunday with three stories of an apartment buildingsuspended above me and you and the baby in his potato sack in the bassinet beside me.I didn't do a thing as the night mare nuzzled him, her whinny glintingsome kind of moonlight, as she snorted and whined untilhe leapt up! took hold of her mane, and they galloped off togetherthrough a gap in the teeth of the curtains as I gasped and I gasped from the bedI rode like a Conestoga unhitched and careering deep into the outlaw night. [End Page 71] Quarantine Bardo for R. A. Then, today, we debated the selective logicsof cannibalism over hot dogs on the fire escape. Ragtag squadrons of housefliesgathered at the screen door plottinga next daring incursion. Like a suicide","PeriodicalId":485043,"journal":{"name":"The Hopkins Review","volume":"40 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135737726","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"No Proof of Suffering, and: Theme and Variations","authors":"S. Brook Corfman","doi":"10.1353/thr.2023.a911565","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/thr.2023.a911565","url":null,"abstract":"No Proof of Suffering, and: Theme and Variations S. Brook Corfman (bio) No Proof of Suffering What I remember I don't rememberlike Sappho, or a bowl of clay crackedin the clay ground—I remember it whole,and then nothing. The brackets openbut then they close, like broken pond icefreezing again or a girl putting her paintbrushto the side. I remember kindergarten—learning to kissa bride's cheeks, and then the opening door.The spiky beach in Nice whose silver water made mecry; tear gas in Taksim Square the night beforewe crossed the Bosphorus. The darkwindow of the closed restaurant where I tookeach boring date when I was lonely, or Stephanieand I in the car thinking hard about howto talk about a poem. And then the next morning.The thought experiment where you filla jar with rocks, add sand, and then add water—it proves to me onlythat you could have had more water.Sometimes it's fun to complain, but sometimesI don't want to talk about it, though I should.It changed me, so it's worth trying to explain.What's beauty in a real human being?Maybe me, maybe not. I was olderbecause I felt alone. I was gratefulfor the health I had, though I wasn't all thathealthy, entered into the chart.So I just walk, anxious imaginary wound in the petalat the back of the throat,pretending it will move through me, given time,like the jar of water seeping through the sand.What do you think you see? The only willow of my childhoodwas an old one, huge, that we drove by but nevervisited, though privately I longed toread under its branches. Just for the tableau. [End Page 22] Theme and Variations When it rains, it pours, my grandmother told me as I watched the storm, though it is not an idiom about the weather. I can watch the rain or the garden, or the door that opens in the air, for a long time. Nothing happens, and it feels like nothing happens, but something does. When I watched Annea Lockwood's burning piano, the snapping strings surprised me—they were deep; they still had a pitch. Heat is a kind of pressure. Under it the wave in my hair goes flat and shiny but my gut dries out; some things remain as rocks; some ivory explodes. In the background a green and pink phantom appears. What, seen while in pain, is real? A smudge looks like a bald head, but no one's face could be that still. A woman is a fast-growing tree, or a rose of Sharon, which is mostly not a tree, whose flowers fall immediately, whole head, and stain the ground. A woman staples balloons to the piano and sets it on fire. A woman who is my mother leaves first the peach tree and then that rose of Sharon in the garden after they'd died, as a kind of architecture. I didn't hear each string of the piano break, and I thought it was my failure. But I was wrong; it wasn't my fault. The strings I didn't hear didn't break. It becomes an experiment that I would have to do myself to be sure. My love's mother paints her beautiful wood piano, but when I see it I have to admit, it is also beautiful. I wanted to write about ","PeriodicalId":485043,"journal":{"name":"The Hopkins Review","volume":"8 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135736816","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Ode to the Sword of Omens, and: Self-Portrait as Prince of the Fire Nation","authors":"Steven Leyva","doi":"10.1353/thr.2023.a911581","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/thr.2023.a911581","url":null,"abstract":"Ode to the Sword of Omens, and: Self-Portrait as Prince of the Fire Nation Steven Leyva (bio) Ode to the Sword of Omens I watched you, animated seer without a Holy Spirit, nohumanity, just your whetted steel-gray echoed in the morning fog before kindergarten. My chinrested in the chalice of my hands, the ceremony of foil and antennas was set, only a hard slapcould summon you from the cough of static: Katoom. Katoom. Then an unsheathing in song: Feel the magic, hearthe roar and you appeared slicing air. That cat eye clouded with prophecy and lodged in your hilt, widenedlike a mailbox stuffed with debt letters. Not even the clash and scrape of a fork scrambling eggswith rust in a worn pan, not even the impatient stab of my mother's voice could move me. In the livingroom's predawn darkness our oak-hued TV slung one soft orb of light, washing my skin in rgb.There were days I prayed to be high [End Page 102] yellow—how else would anyone know I was beautiful? Sword of Omensthe lion-hero begged your hilt curve like fang, like claw, like time; grant sight beyond sight. It was a pleadingI recognized in my mother every Sunday carrying a tenth of her paycheck to the stage stairsthe preacher called altar. What did she see turning back to her pew, sweat swimming in the crestof her finger waves? The steel gray in every look that knew the amount written was too quick to be anythingmore than a widow's mite. And I had a begging of my own knowing my father was alive,circling our lives like a beltway but not around, not sending out a search light, like youdid every cartoon morning to call home a squad of thunder. Sword of heroes, what omens can you offerthat will sheathe the sadness [End Page 103] my mother wielded in a tithe? Can you tell me how dark these steelgray mornings will make my skin? Can you tell me tomorrow's weather? Can you tell me whenmy father will come home again? [End Page 104] Self-Portrait as Prince of the Fire Nation I won't ignore the obvious. The scar growslike a new world atlas: my face conqueredand unconquered by my father's bentfire. Annually I visit the prisonof his disappointment; the bored guardsof memory perform a cursory search,and find him powerless, but still angry. Anger is the mise-en-scène all the menof my family perform in. We fire upour baritones and loud talk our regret. Weall have mouths without enough roomfor our teeth. We pretend to the calmof jasmine tea. So few of us can redirectlightning away from our hearts. Selahlike the sigh of a dying flame. Perhaps I find little honor in searchingmy father's face for my own. Giventhis blackening scar, stretchinglike an explorer's finger touchinga map, I breathe as the dragons breathe. [End Page 105] Steven Leyva steven leyva was born in New Orleans and raised in Houston. His poems have appeared in Smartish Pace, Prairie Schooner, and Best American Poetry 2020. He is a Cave Canem fellow and author of The Understudy's Handbook, which won the Jean Feldman Poetry Prize from Washington W","PeriodicalId":485043,"journal":{"name":"The Hopkins Review","volume":"7 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135737073","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"In Conversation with Jeanne-Marie Jackson","authors":"Mary-Alice Daniel","doi":"10.1353/thr.2023.a911576","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/thr.2023.a911576","url":null,"abstract":"In Conversation with Jeanne-Marie Jackson Mary-Alice Daniel (bio) April 12, 2023 Baltimore, Maryland Jeanne-Marie Jackson: We'll start with the most heavy-hitting intellectual question of the evening, and possibly of your career thus far: what is the significance of your dress? Mary-Alice Daniel: My book [A Coastline Is an Immeasurable Thing: A Memoir Across Three Continents] is about being from a part of Nigeria that's heavily underrepresented within the global literary scene. Most well-known Nigerian authors are from the southern and central parts of the country, and I am from the extreme north. I was born in the birthplace of Boko Haram, which you probably know from the kidnapping of the Chibok girls in 2014, and their name means \"Western education is forbidden.\" People from the north don't often leave because the way out of the country is usually through education. My parents were a rare exception; my grandfather converted to Christianity and sent my mom to school, then she went to England for more schooling, and that's how we left. But northern girls aren't equally educated, and there aren't a lot of immigrants to the West. When I was finishing my memoir, my publisher asked me if I wanted to record my own audiobook. I hate my own voice so, instead, they searched for a suitable voice actress. They couldn't find a single person from the north of Nigeria who spoke my native language, Hausa, who could pronounce the passages in the book that are written in Hausa. I ended up going with a Nigerian American voice actress. Her name's Liz Femi; she's great. She's Yoruba. I gave her pronunciation lessons to teach her to be able to pronounce Hausa words. We have certain letters that aren't in the English language, so she had to train herself. But when I listened to the audiobook for the first time, my nickname was mispronounced! The whole book is about my alienation, even amongst Nigerians. Liz pronounced it nah-nah, but my parents and my siblings call me nah-nah. So that small thing, nah-nah versus nah-nah, ended up being both alienating and an opportunity for connection. [End Page 76] Finding the right cover for the book was also an ordeal and an opportunity. I care very much about covers. With my memoir's cover, I love the fabric pattern and the way it's warped. My book was published in November. In December I was in Senegal teaching a writing workshop and, walking past a shop, I saw the same fabric. It's a popular design, but I had never seen it in these colors before. I'd seen it in blues, purples, but never yellow and red. The shop wasn't even a fabric shop; it only had a few prints. And I wasn't in Dakar—I was in this little village where you wouldn't expect to find every fabric out there. So I took it as a sign. And, of course, I bought a few yards and had this dress made. I like to wear it when I read from the memoir to symbolize how the book was a journey in many ways about finding a sense of . . . I don't know what word I'm looking for. It's ","PeriodicalId":485043,"journal":{"name":"The Hopkins Review","volume":"1 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135737729","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Letter from the Editor","authors":"","doi":"10.1353/thr.2023.a903920","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/thr.2023.a903920","url":null,"abstract":"Letter from the Editor Phoebe Oathout, Dear Reader, Two years ago, during the first month of my mfa, I sat through a workshop where we spent 10 minutes debating how to get a car-less protagonist at Home Depot back home. Along with her, we had to move a shovel and several bags of fertilizer. Could she call a rideshare? Would it be more interesting if a friend picked her up? Like most conversations at the start of mfas, it felt like these narrative logistics held the secret to literary success; it felt like we were doing very important work! Perhaps we were. Our seemingly pedantic discussion led us to the connective tissue that unites disparate events into cohesive artwork. In other words, we debated movement. The writing in this issue raises questions of movement and change repeatedly—most explicitly in “Traversals: A Folio on Walking,” guest-edited by Anna Maria Hong and Christine Hume. The folio has its own galvanizing introduction, so I’ll only add that I was amazed by the possibilities these pieces bring to the folio’s titular prompt. I’m thinking about Nabil Kashyap’s “Western Avenue,” which opens with “Okay, I am walking . . .” and follows the essayist as he travels on foot from East Hollywood to Palos Verdes. The tension is the movement, along with the question of what motivates a writer to go on such a journey. In the poetry of Claudia Rankine and Ruby Hansen Murray, strolling figures are engulfed by their surroundings, whether they be urban crosswalk or rural neighborhood interspersed with wilderness. These pieces are interested in every aspect of walking: bodies, conditions, landscapes. If the folio pages engage you, I recommend you check out the print folio’s online counterpart at HopkinsReview.com, which includes work by 16 writers, including Caryl Pagel, Sesshu Foster, and Joan Naviyuk Kane, as well as “Seven Walking & Writing Projects,” a compilation of “pedestrian strategies” co-authored by Hong and Hume. Of course, the question of movement goes beyond walking, and other works in this issue tackle different progressions. When I first read Vauhini Vara’s “The Irates,” I was amazed at how the story delivers two girls from a Chinese restaurant to a scummy telemarketing office in a few lines of [End Page 4] dialogue. That feeling resurfaced when I read Moira Egan’s poem “Velar,” which moves through memory and an individual’s relationship with religion in 26 lines. Eileen G’Sell’s film review of Close examines emotional movement: how friendship between two young male protagonists goes from intimate to stonewalled in a schoolyard. The page can change its reader too. The most rewarding aspect of my time as an editor of The Hopkins Review is what I learn from its writers. How does a poem move me from a windowsill through memory while feeling fresh? How does a short story shock me with a character’s transformation? How does a writer walk across Los Angeles while composing an essay? All those answers are here. I hope you find them just as mov","PeriodicalId":485043,"journal":{"name":"The Hopkins Review","volume":"261 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2023-06-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"135046258","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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