Editor’s Note

Readers: Welcome to Plume Issue # 56 –       March: And I think of my brother, whose birthday is upcoming: sixty-six. Brilliant, kind beyond measure, forbearance incarnate, M. became ill at age 14 – schizophrenia. I have written

Featured Selection

FEATURED SELECTION

By way of introduction to this month’s Featured Selection of an essay on Marguerite Duras and two poems by Cynthia Cruz, we present an introductory interview with our own Associate Editor for Special Projects, the estimable Nancy Mitchell, followed by

Reviews

The Poetry of Yehuda Amichai

In this month’s installment, reviews editor Adam Tavel reflects on the translated works of an iconic Israeli poet. When Yehuda Amichai died in 2000, the international literary community mourned the passing of Israel’s greatest post-war poet. For those of us

This Month's Selections

Somewhere in Eastern Europe

It was the year the townsfolk shaved off their hair believing that bad thoughts were getting trapped in it.   The hairstylists were banned from the area. The grey-winged hens of Palawy laid their eggs all around the town.  

Two Poems

To a Man in Rags Holding Out a Cup       I don’t have much in the wallet of my heart—a fortune from last week’s cookie, old snapshot of a sweet-faced mutt, library card, a couple dollars crinkled and stuffed

EPHEBE WITH CYPRIPEDIUM

Sweet ephebe, dear good friend, shall I compare thee to what? There’s nothing to be measured against your cleanly beauty and no filly could in any way compete with you. That’s why I find to be around you while all

Two Poems

The Way Forward   Swordplay is all the rage at Edie’s school. You can’t have an actual sword, but may display the swagger of your arm, which Rupert does, all blade and swashbuckle, though he must ask Edie first, May

Bird of Paradise

The songs of the mariachi in the park soar over the neighborhood. In the backyard in the sea air I hear clearly the words in Spanish which I don’t speak but I know the song is about a woman and

The Fourth Walk

Among the ruined are the ruins. Rules even skies can wreck in shreds, a rest of something caught in forms. A rent, we walked along an edge   of the city and thus of a continent (having found ourselves once

Ars Poetica

Sometimes I feel My relationship to American Poetry Is a lot like the Halloween I stood at the door of one of my aunts, The sister of my mother, the one Who lived in a small trimmed house Married without

Just Before Sunset in December

It must have something to do with the angle of the earth as it turns away from the sun in late fall in New England when just after four the temperature drops and the light shoots straight from the hip

Two Poems

Before Auvillar, November 5   1. The American poet died of head trauma after tumbling out her window. Idiot tried to close the shutters without Mister Long Arm. The American died of flesh-eating bacteria after using ancient sponges at the

The Fruit Bat of Taxidermy

Whoever the taxidermist was, he had a dash of God in him. And not just because he was a creator- he was a destroyer most of the time. He gave an Egyptian fruit bat a funeral fit for Pharaoh, smuggled

Two Poems

With My Senses in Ruins   Here’s a recipe for seeing: sleep and feeling as a long-expected season feels the day the sky entrusts its new campaign   of sails and sheets. Where in time do figures, half-imagined, blend themselves

SQUANDERED MOONS

Probes on TV tell the tale of their worthlessness—all rock and frozen acid, enough ammonia to shine the pane of a solar system. Beneath an ice-cap’s green and limpid tide, the bets are off on whether cell-bright creatures stir which