It is late Autumn in Brasilia, when the climate has gone from rainy to desert and the sky becomes a ceaseless blue. The living grass gives up, the public lands of green go red. The clay soil is unmasked again. Water vapor in the air dries up, and humidifiers are brought down from off the shelf. Blue-eyed people cannot be outside without protective eyewear.
So welcome to issue six. We are happy to present two pieces by the great Portuguese poet Camilo Pessanha, beautifully translated by Ian Watts.
Andrew Dyer’s unique prose might have just launched the nouveau Oulipo. Kelly DuMar, caring for two, has an epiphany. Adinda Annisa, in her charming English, defends with praise her people.
Michael G. Cornelius finds symbols in anatomy, C.J. Lightbourn has a side of himself he can only show in whispers, Derek Pecolatto wrenches himself and another empty, and Andrew Wells echoes prettily a bit of William Blake.
On our cover, Nayrb Wasylycia shows that in our crowded world you can still chance on music lying in the road.
The Brasilia Review can rest before the M-80 derangement of the World Cup.
Peter Isn’t Eating by Andrew Dyer
“There needn’t be weight where no weight is placed.”
North Sumatra People Are Not Creepy by Adinda Annisa
“Things I see while gathering is laughing, laughing, and laughing.”
The Night My Father Gave Me Poetry by Kelly DuMar
“…I got a call from relatives who were in the middle of a family crisis with their teenage daughter.”
Algerian Iris by Michael G. Cornelius
“and the harsh bloom / of unveiling light”
Whispers. (Typed.) by C.J. Lightbourn
“My requests are slimy with slurs”
San Francisco by Derek Pecolatto
“Your soft breath / almost drowned in static”
Poems of Camilo Pessanha tr. by Ian Watts
“Belief is a beacon. You do not seek it,”
The Lady and the Dove by Andrew Wells
“The cottage knows a garden path”