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Showing posts from February, 2009

ANALECTA

Empty Suitcase: Pick Up the 27 Phone Receivers from Artists and Writers in Analecta

I am pleased to introduce 27 artists and writers in Analecta 2009. These artists and writers have been specially selected from the finest ingredients at IU South Bend and processed by Fiction Editor: Mitchell Robinson, Poetry Editor: Eric Duenez, and Editor in Chief: Naoko Fujimoto to produce a full bodied, robust Analecta that goes down smooth, and never comes back up.

The IU South Bend Writing Awards have not been announced yet, so they may have minor adjustments (I hope to not miss award-winning writers at this moment,) however, this issue will contain 100% creative energy; I guaranteed to inebriate the senses without risking the brain cells.

The cover art will be designed by a promising, young photographer, Ashley Hartsough. She is a junior, double majoring in radiology and fine arts. She has been practicin photography for four years and her pictures have sparkle, gripping any eyes that glance upon th…
THE SILVER LILY
By Louise Gluck

The nights have grown cool again, like the nights
of early spring, and quiet again. Will
speech disturb you? We’re
alone now; we have no reason for silence.

Can you see, over the garden—the full moon rises.
I won’t see the next full moon.

In spring, when the moon rose, it meant
time was endless. Snowdrops
opened and closed, the clustered
seeds of the maples fell in pale drifts.
White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree.
And in the crook, where the tree divides,
leaves of the first daffodils, in moonlight
soft greenish-silver.

We have come too fat together toward the end now
to fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain
I know what the end means. And you, who’ve been
.......with a man—

after the first cries,
doesn’t joy, like fear, make no sound?

***
Louise Gluck "The Wild Iris"
ALL HALLOWS
By Louise Gluck

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the shaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon raised:

This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

***
Louise Gluck "The house on Marchland"
Empty Suitcase:
Moments with Fathers and Daughters before Goodnight Sleep

An interview with Dr. Chang Choi about his academic career and his writer daughter Susan Choi, who is taking in part in events for the annual art and literary magazine, Analecta, was absolutely fantastic. (The interview is in this issue and the Analecta publication ceremony will be open to the public on April 11.)

Dr. Choi talked that he used to read children books to his daughter every night and her favorite book was Charlotte’s Web, which reminded me of my father. My father also read books before my sister and I went to sleep on our futon-mattress and our favorite Japanese book was How to Digest Food. The book was artistic but might not be an appropriate book for raising a poet; well, I am choosing to be a poet.

The plot was very simple. After a boy eats an apple, strawberry ice cream, fried rice, teriyaki salmon, tomato, a ham sandwich and etc, fairies appear and start their long journeys in the tunnels. There w…
Welcome Kero to home!
It was a birthday surprise from Aaron :)
Empty Suitcase

Dr. Chang Choi, Father of an Author of the Pulitzer Prize Finalist, Has a Story

Dr. Chang Choi, who is currently teaching mathematic classes at IU South Bend, was once a struggling, international student. His family is originally from South Korea, but he spent his younger years in Japan and South Korea and came to America as a student in 1955.

His father was a well-known Shakespearian scholar and published several books in Japan under a Japanese name, Kozo Ishida. However, Korean politics during that time period had conflicts with Ishida’s Japanese academic background, so he was in a prison for a while. Therefore, Dr. Choi’s parents decided to send their children to overseas places such as America, Australia, and France during their college ages.

“I had the first opportunity to be a Korean student at Harvard,” said Dr. Choi but his final decision was to study mathematics at University of Michigan at Ann Arbor. “Actually, I wanted to be a philosopher,” Dr. Choi also said; however, his a…
So, I created lines and lines of marshmallow-drum and fife bands wearing Belgium chocolate scarves and strawberry berets.
It was NOT a box of chocolate.
It was a block of chocolate from Belgium like a soap.
Happy Morning after Valentine's Day!
Hymn for Two Choirs
by Ashley Capps

Best apple I ever had was three o'clock
in the morning, somewhere outside
San Francisco, beach camping, stars holding
the sky together like sutures. I was thinking
how I was going to get old and ask myself
why did I only live for one thing;
at the same time I didn't know how to change.
I thought I felt like my neighbor's huge dog--
every day stuffed into a small man's green T-shirt
and chained to a stake in a yard of incongruous
white tulips. Here and there a red bird, a train.
Way down the beach other tents glowed orange.
I heard a stranger call my name
and another stranger, laughing, answered.

***
Ashley Capps, "Hymn for Two Choirs" from Making the Sea for Green Fields. Copyright © 2006 by the author.

Reading events by international writers at the University of Notre Dame and IU South Bend

The IUSB Preface
Reading events by international writers at the University of Notre Dame and IU South Bend

From February 9-11 at the University of Notre Dame there was the international reading event, “Global Women Writers Now, Notre Dame Women Writers Festival 2009, Women in International Literary Cultures: Korea and Mexico.” Two phenomenal writers, Kim Hyesoon (Korea) and Laura Sol√≥rzano (Mexico) and their translators, Don Mee Choi and Jen Hofer, discussed translation processes and conflicts of female writers in each country and performed their poetry in both their native language and English.

Kim Hyesoon is an award-winning writer and has several published books in Korea. She writes poems spoken by animals such as hens, cows, and rats. Mommy Must be a Fountain of Feathers is her first book translated into English. From a book of her early work of poetry, “Conservatism of the Rats of Seoul,” she wrote, “Daddy and Mommy lay us down one by one/ Many of us are born— as many as Mommy’s n…
CONSERVATISM OF THE RATS OF SEOUL
By Kim Hyesoon
translated by Don Mee Choi

Daddy and Mommy lay us down one by one
Many of us are born-- as many as Mommy's nipples
Mommy licks out eyes with her tongue softer than white bread,
licks with all her might, with darkness, darkness is cozy

Daddy who herds a fish head home also brings with him scary news
You can hear the footsteps far away, the wailing dire truck
Mommy's nipples harden
Mommy blocks the rat hole with her entire body,
out ears as well

A hairy leg enters our room It's him He thrashes his body around,
bam bam, shaking the house, but only the leg enters,
toenails rip Mommy's eyes, ears,
the foot in a leather shoe stomps on Mommy's skirt
Mommy isn't breathing

He pokes around, back and forth
as many times as the minute hand of the night
You can hear the snarl all night long
He wails, pounding his head against the wall
Mommy is like a corpse and Daddy is nowhere to be seen
All night long, crushed against the house,
a hairy mouth t…
Baby Villon
by Philip Levine


He tells me in Bangkok he’s robbed
Because he’s white; in London because he’s black;
In Barcelona, Jew; in Paris, Arab:
Everywhere and at all times, and he fights back.

He holds up seven thick little fingers
To show me he’s rated seventh in the world,
And there’s no passion in his voice, no anger
In the flat brown eyes flecked with blood.

He asks me to tell all I can remember
Of my father, his uncle; he talks of the war
In North Africa and what came after,
The loss of his father, the loss of his brother,

The windows of the bakery smashed and the fresh bread
Dusted with glass, the warm smell of rye
So strong he ate till his mouth filled with blood.
“Here they live, here they live and not die,”

And he points down at his black head ridged
With black kinks of hair. He touches my hair,
Tells me I should never disparage
The stiff bristles that guard the head of the fighter.

Sadly his fingers wander over my face,
And he says how fair I am, how smooth.
We stand to end this first and…
Empty Suitcase:
Economic Mosquitoes Holey Stocking Blues

My birthday is coming on this twenty first of February. I was once sweet sixteen and it was a decade ago. In 1999, I was a spoiled, nearly high school dropout and I hid under my blanket all day long before I met my very first crazy American friends (what’s up, Leif and Elizabeth!). My parents did not want to see me in their apartment during the daytime, so they bought a flight ticket to America. I spend my sixteenth summer vacation in Portland, Oregon.

I still exactly did not know why I could not go to high school and sleep twenty-two hours every day, but in the summer, I decided to study writing in America during my future, which I clearly remember.

So, I constantly sent Nachan Weekly News to Leif and Elizabeth writing about a mosquito that tried to make a friend with me like E.T., but could not fight the urge to suck the blood from the tip of my finger instead of gently caressing it with a glowing fingertip of its own (Mmmm, mo…
Publishable
NOT publishable

If you know why, you have a different mindset of mine...
Perforated Value