 Arlington Literary Journal an ejournal also known as ArLiJo, is located in Arlington, Virginia and is sponsored by Gival Press. The intent of ArLiJo is to feature a variety of authors/poets/artists from around the globe whose work provokes readers to contemplate issues, etc. The work chosen promotes understanding and sensitivity across borders, even if initially the work may cause one to take a double-take. Staff: Editor-in-Chief, Robert L. Giron Associate Editor, Sarah Fannon The Reading Period for ArLiJo will open from January 15 to March 15, 2018. Any work published shall remain the property of the author/poet/artist and for any previously published work to appear the author/poet/artist must still retain the copyright of the work. Please note that ArLiJo is an ejournal. Payment for publication is a book from a selection of books published by Gival Press. Books Available to ArLiJo Contributors NONFICTION: Sexy Liberal! Of Me I Sing by Stephanie Miller FICTION: Dream of Another America by Tyler McMahon Ghost Horse by Thomas H. McNeely Mayhem: Three Lives of a Woman by Elizabeth Harris Show Up, Look Good by Mark Wisniewski That Demon Life by Lowell Mick White Twelve Rivers of the Body by Elizabeth Oness The Cannibal of Guadalajara by David Winner The Best of Gival Press Short Stories ed. by Robert L. Giron The Second Act by Tim Brown Barrow’s Point by Robert Schirmer POETRY: Poetic Voices Without Borders ed by Robert L. Giron On the Altar of Greece by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee Poetic Voices Without Borders 2 ed by Robert L. Giron Songs for the Spirit by Robert L. Giron On the Tongue by Jeff Mann Bones Washed With Wine by Jeff Mann The Great Canopy by Paula Goldman Sweet to Burn by Beverly Burch Protection by Gregg Shapiro Honey by Richard Carr 12 Sonnets for the Zodiac by John Gosslee Adamah: Poème by Celine Zins |
Henry Hughes Winner of the 2012 Gival Press Oscar Wilde Award Nominated for a 2012 Pushcart Prize  Photo by Paul Gentry. Action “He’s big, he’s mean, and he kills a lot of bad guys. “No one cared that he was gay.” —testimony from a Pentagon report More than grunts, we tongue Arabic and Farsi in the dusty streets and shops. Watching, listening carefully—very carefully—between straight black abayas and embroidered white caps. We’d rather talk them down, but we’ll shoot. We know the soft and hard of man. Face in the tower, bulge in the pants. Our M-16s and that nasty SAW put the queer fear in their Sharia law. Like Negroes marching on the old South, we’re a nightmare bayonet up their hanging moons. Don’t get fucking captured, I tell my men, and they don’t. Snugging green belts across our tight abs, we smarten our collars and slip on those big blonde boots. Fit in? Come on, we’re good at that. We had to be. Give us the action and we can all relax. Copyright © 2012 by Henry Hughes. Biography: Henry Hughes grew up on Long Island, New York and he has lived in Oregon since 2002. His poems have appeared in Antioch Review, Carolina Quarterly, Malahat Review, Shenandoah, Southern Humanities Review, Seattle Review and Poetry Northwest, and are represented in several anthologies including Long Journey: Contemporary Northwest Poets (Oregon State University Press). His first collection, Men Holding Eggs, received the 2004 Oregon Book Award; his second book, Moist Meridian, was chosen by Robert Pinsky as a finalist for the 2011 Oregon Book Award; and his third collection, Shutter Lines, was published in 2012. He is the editor of the anthology, The Art of Angling: Poems about Fishing (Knopf, 2011) and his commentary on new poetry appears regularly in Harvard Review. John Taylor's translations of José-Flore Tappy's poetry from Gravel by José-Flore Tappy Unerring the torrent rises rips through the thick fog crosses all of space stretching out towards the lost light * Val Derbon At dawn a soaring buzzard flares in the sunlight raises its velvety wings above a still warm sky light and hesitating your hands move in front of my twilit face your fingers slip across my arm like a timid trickle of water * In the distance is it perhaps the wind and its repetitive questions or your steps fading away? I half awake at the very end of your voice * Lying barefoot in the close-cropped grass we held the earth that day like a familiar arm blindly in order to slide into the night * Whoever bends over the sky sees only heavy swells and wind deserts but up there all dizziness is forgotten from wave to wave emptiness carries us on its back to the first gleams when the distances calm down near a riverbed * In the hungry night to take your fingers one by one into my mouth beloved grapes that I leave on their bunch for tomorrow Translation Copyright © 2012 by John Taylor. Biography: John Taylor has recently translated books by Jacques Dupin (Of Flies and Monkeys, Bitter Oleander Press), Philippe Jaccottet (And, Nonetheless, Chelsea), and Pierre-Albert Jourdan (The Straw Sandals, Chelsea). He is also the author of the three-volume essay collection, Paths to Contemporary French Literature (Transaction), and Into the Heart of European Poetry (Transaction). His most recent book is If Night Is Falling (Bitter Oleander Press), a collection of short prose. Born in Des Moines, Taylor has lived in France since 1977. Biography: José-Flore Tappy, Lausanne-born, is the author of five volumes of poetry, all of which are translated in this volume. She has won two prestigious Swiss literary awards: the Ramuz Prize for Errer mortelle and the Schiller Prize for Hangars and her entire oeuvre. Tappy has also written an essay about the artist Loul Schopfer. She has translated Spanish poetry and, with Marion Graf, the poems of Anna Akhmatova. She works as an editor and scholar at the Centre de Recherches sur les Lettres Romandes at the University of Lausanne. Her poetry in translations by John Taylor has appeared in the Antioch Review, International Literary Quarterly, Two Lines, Aysmptote, Rowboat, Thrush, The Bitter Oleander, and Carte Blanche. Gravier (extraits) Infaillible le torrent monte déchire l’épais brouillard traverse tout l’espace tendu vers la lumière perdue * Val Derbon Au lever du jour une buse avec le soleil s’allume très haut soulève ses ailes de velours sur un ciel encore chaud tes mains passent devant mon visage sombre hésitantes et légères tes doigts glissent sur mon bras comme timide filet d’eau * Peut-être au loin est-ce le vent et ses répétitives questions ou ton pas qui s’éloigne ? je m’éveille à demi tout au bout de ta voix * Couchés dans l’herbe rase pieds nus on a tenu la terre ce jour-là comme un bras familier à l’aveugle pour glisser dans la nuit * Qui se penche sur le ciel ne verra que houle et désert de vent mais là-haut tout vertige s’oublie de vague en vague le vide nous porte sur son dos jusqu’aux premières lueurs quand les distances se calment près d’un lit de rivière * Dans la nuit qui a faim prendre tes doigts un à un dans ma bouche raisins tant aimés que je laisse à leur grappe pour demain Copyright © by José-Flore Tappy from Hangars, Éditions Empreintes, 2006. Reprinted by permission. |
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