“Funicular,” a poem by 2010 graduate Rebecca Foust, was recently featured in Tikkun. Read an excerpt below:

Funicular

On seeing Gaudi’s model in the Sagrada Familia

Oh merciful God, please don’t let me die
before I’ve used Gaudi’s model in a poem
that can outwit art like he cheated gravity
& math, bags of birdshot hung plumb
to suspend & subvert verticality

Read the poem in its entirety here: https://www.tikkun.org/blog/2020/10/12/funicular/

Lynette D’Amico, a 2013 fiction graduate, was recently featured in Guernica. Read an excerpt of D’Amico’s essay below:

Men I Hate: The Stasi Men

All the dogs in Berlin had the same face. A wiry, bearded face with intelligent eyes and perked ears. None of the dogs paid me the slightest bit of attention even though I was so dog hungry, missing our Labradoodle and yellow Lab back home in Boston. The German dogs trotted with purpose and never veered from the path to chase a duck or leap into the water or bark to say hi or keep away. This is what it means to be a good dog in Berlin.

It was 2018 and my husband and I were living in Berlin, where he was on an academic fellowship and I was there as “spouse of.” My position relegated me to the outer circle of the big-headed fellows, which was fine with me. It was part of the story of our relationship—he was a front guy, I preferred to watch the scene around me. We were also there to try and put our marriage back together following my husband’s gender transition from a queer woman to a man, which began two years earlier, in 2016. How would it be to live someplace where nobody knew our specific relationship history or had known us in a previous incarnation as a queer couple? Were we still a queer couple? The hope was that in a setting where somebody was cooking and cleaning for us, we would stop fighting about whose turn it was to vacuum and what’s for dinner and get to the big fights, such as, were we going to stay married?

We were living in Wannsee, a southwestern suburb of Berlin, on the River Havel. While there, I visited the late summer garden at the Liebermann-Villa, the summer residence of the painter Max Liebermann, on a tour with a cohort of fellows. A small birch allée leads to Lake Wannsee and features prominently in many of Liebermann’s paintings. There is a bronze otter fountain, purple cabbages planted among the dahlias, a rose arbor. It is an artist’s garden, with vivid colors and crafted views. After Liebermann died in 1935, the house was confiscated by the Nazis. I wandered nearly next door to the House of the Wannsee Conference, an imposing villa that now operates as a museum, where, in 1942, in an eighty-five-minute meeting, fifteen men decided “the final solution to the Jewish question,” and then were served lunch and drank cognac.

* * *

At the Table

At the obligatory group dinner every night, a dreamy Italian German waiter pulled out the chairs for all the women and poured endless glasses of wine with his hand over his heart. I felt lit up in the spotlight of his beautiful service. He was soft-spoken and had a delicious accent. He greeted me with warmth and eagerness, anticipated my needs, and spoke to me as though he were kissing my hand. He was my favorite. My husband sat with his elbows on the table, chatting up his fellow fellows about digital philosophy and Balkan politics and the fifteenth-century Ottoman empire.

“To reduce a gender transition to being in the wrong flesh bag in my experience is problematic…”

“If the condemned recanted, the person was strangled before the fire was lit—a mercy execution.”

“…neoliberalism is about the individual, not the group!”

My husband was the first trans person to be selected as a fellow for this program, to sit at this table. His award had been publicized, which mostly preempted the need for him to introduce himself as trans, which he had no hesitation about doing. It did happen, more than once, though, that when he described living as a “white, Midwestern girl from a small town in Indiana for fifty years,” an audience member didn’t recognize the signifier—the bearded, burly guy in the designer glasses—as the signified. “Who was the middle-aged woman from Indiana you were talking about?” he was asked.

* * *

The Questions We Carried

There were two single women among the fellows. When I wanted to get my girl on, we sneaked cigarettes and complimented each other’s wardrobe selections. “I love your shoes!” “I love your shoes!” My husband called them my lesbian girlfriends. They were my favorites.

My husband liked to dress in streetwear and overpriced sneakers. He was peppy and happy and filled with joy. Before the transition, he never sweated. In Berlin, he sweat and sweat like a hairy sweating man. He was proud of his sweat. “Look at this sweat,” he said at the dinner table, happily sweating.

As conversations went on around me, I nodded agreeably left and right, chewing and swallowing my German meaty meat meals—pink boar’s meat ravioli, twice-cooked venison, mussels with fennel and blood oranges, lamb’s lettuce with grape and bacon vinaigrette. If anybody asked me anything directly, I panicked into muteness.

“Your husband says you like to cook; maybe you can take a cooking class during your time in Berlin.”

“Perhaps you are interested in cheese culture?”

“What are the ruins of capitalism?”

Every table conversation felt like an interview for a job I was not going to get.

My husband’s question for me was, could I love a man, specifically, him? I had the same question for myself. I mean, you love the person, not a body, not a gender, and what did it matter after nearly twenty years together? People stay married for all kinds of reasons. My husband and I had a joint bank account. We shared an aesthetic sensibility, except for my disdain for streetwear and sneakers. We were both Italian. We weren’t going to break up, were we?

Read the essay in its entirety here: https://www.guernicamag.com/men-i-hate-the-stasi-men/

Alberto Reyes Morgan is one of the recipients of the 2021 PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers. The prize recognizes 12 emerging writers each year for their debut short story published in a literary magazine, journal, or cultural website, and aims to support the launch of their careers as fiction writers. The winning writers each receive a $2,000 cash prize and will be published by Catapult in their annual anthology, Best Debut Short Stories: The PEN America Dau Prize.

Read more about the Award at the link below.

https://pen.org/pen-dau-short-story-prize/?fbclid=IwAR0MAeaux_8htQ0wOSH3W88mb2hQnppl-FqUy_iHkwW6V5J3Ez66JyKDi0w

Poetry alum Dinah Berland was recently featured in Forward. Hear her discuss her mentee Amanda Gorman, who recently read at President Biden’s inauguration, below:

Amanda Gorman’s former mentor knows what drives her

A lot of us shed tears when Amanda Gorman recited her poem “The Hill We Climb” at the inauguration of President Joe Biden.

Dinah Berland didn’t just cry, she screamed.

“Oh my goodness, I was just thrilled,” Berland, a Jewish poet and author who has been a mentor to the young poet laureate. “I knew she would rise to the occasion, because of who she is.”

Berland started working with Gorman, who is now 22, six years ago. She has seen an already-gifted girl grow, through hard work and focused ambition, into the young woman who commanded the national spotlight — and will be in it once again on Sunday when she is scheduled to recite a poem at the Superbowl pre-game show.

They met in the spring of 2015 at the Museum of Contemporary Art in downtown Los Angeles, where Gorman was reciting a poem as part of WriteGirl, a nonprofit that empowers girls through self-expression. Berland, an accomplished poet and author, had come because she wanted to serve as one of the group’s mentors.

“Amanda got up there and she was so far superior to the other kids,” Berland recalled in an interview last week. “I wanted her to know she was special.”

So Berland followed her out of the museum and found Amanda sitting alone on a bench.

“I introduced myself, and I said hoped she would take her work seriously,” Berland said.

A few weeks later, someone from WriteGirl called Berland to say the group had “the perfect young girl” for her—Amanda Gorman. She was already well on her way, having been selected as Los Angeles Youth Poet Laureate in 2014, and publishing a book of poetry, “The One for Whom Food Is Not Enough” in 2015.

Gorman’s passion was clear. In a poem published in a WriteGirl anthology when she was 14 years-old, she wrote, “Poetry is your voice when you don’t have one/It is who you are when you don’t know.”

Berland, who has an MFA from Warren Wilson College in North Carolina, has published prize-winning poetry, and also wrote “Hours of Devotion: Fanny Neuda’s Book of Prayers for Jewish Women” (Schocken, 2007), a verse adaptation of the first Jewish prayer book by a woman. Her poetic translations channel Neuda’s 19th-century voice through a modern sensibility.

The two women, 60 years apart, began working together at a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in West Los Angeles.

“She was primarily a spoken-word poet,” Berland recalled. “Maya Angelou was her favorite. So we studied poetry on the page, how poems live on as literature.

“She’s really a genius, totally brilliant,” she added. “She wanted professional guidance from a writer.”

Sitting in the noisy café, Berland and Gorman read poets like Terrance Hayes and Yusef Komunyakaa. They read Rita Dove, the first African-American to hold the title of U.S. Poet Laureate, and Natasha Trethewey, a more recent U.S. Poet Laureate.

Berland gave Gorman assignments she herself had in graduate school, which she said Gorman aced, though she was just 16. Berland gave Gorman prompts to write from, and Gorman, to Berland’s astonishment, would be able to concentrate and write amidst the din. On her own, Gorman devoured biographies of poets.

“She wanted to understand how poets became poets,” Berland said.

Read the article in its entirety here: https://forward.com/news/463367/amanda-gormans-former-mentor-knows-what-drives-her/

  Split
 
Mother, I wish I could twin myself and tuck you in 
to your blanket cocoon. You say the cold eats at your bones, 
 
and I know, because last time I heard crumbling marrow 
roll through you like rain. Mother, there are feathers 
 
stuck in my throat. I wish for a twin with telepathic lips 
against your good ear. Let her relay that yesterday
 
a swarm of cedar waxwings picked clean your daughter’s
ligustrum of fruit. The daughter who moved to warmer climes, 
 
because you said—remember?—everything would be okay. 
Let this slightly more beautiful child help you find the perfect tilt, 
 
suspend your legs, undo gravity’s pressure. I made sure 
she knows your fleece throw should fold under your feet, 
 
that your worn pillow is to cradle your head, 
and it’s your left ear to which she should bend when she says:  
 
your far-away daughter sends love from her new, green yard. 
Her voice chimes like mine, but may sound sweeter as it swirls 
 
into your inner ear. Mother, don’t let her vibrations fool you 
if through thin cochlear fluid you hear:  
 
I am the girl who loves you best. My twin is prone to lie, 
even as she leans, her silken hair glancing your eyes. The laws 
 
are different here. From twelve hundred miles away, I duplicate. 
I splinter. I fly. Mother, I float to your ceiling, drift over
 
your body. Your body my heart once beat in, 
where as a dark cluster of cells I began furiously to split.