Statement of Record
Not the worst of all chauvinist prigs, I’ll concede, he seemed affronted by the wrongs my little handful of words and lines had done him, their very innocence, their youthfulness, rebuking him. The Pretty Child Can’t Write, She Shouldn’t, She Mustn’t, She Dare Not, She Will Not, The Skinny Co-ed Won’t Write, he seemed to pledge to himself as he drew forth my packet of fledgling verse and...
In plain English, the question of class has to do with money. Who gets paid what for what labor. In that respect, the poet belongs to the bottom of the economic totem pole. Each poet can do his or her tallying. Do you believe that you get a penny an hour for the numbers of hours you spend producing your poems?
In classical Marxism, income...
Mosquitoes attach themselves
to the undersides of leaves;
their husks litter trees,
shimmering underthings.Children’s voices
unfold, always hungry.
They suck my limbs; their cries
bind my narrow bones.The sawed-off edges
of their voices splinter,
crack. Children...
Pain unravels slowly
like the filigree ends of a fern leave
unfurling in the dewy winter mornings
nature gives away the love
it stores and nurtures
Yanked from the freezer,
it doesn't resist, cubes dispersed
unevenly, one
side of the pale blue plastic tray
weighted down by a half-
There’s a kind of music that
plays when the warm water
runs down her hair
partly because love
travels through much
of these lines
ears & glyphs follow
something like a rash move
& various kinds
of self-denial
İskender has written frank, brutally honest, and sometimes shocking poems that push the limits of social norms. He has created profoundly philosophical poems with a unique literary style. He is a poet who deserves to be translated to many world languages and read widely. What Pink Floyd meant for world music is similar to what İskender means...
The woman standing at the door of her hut. Blazing sun, the air clouded with insects. The girl, you, skinnier than in the film, hungry thin, owl eyes; blistered roads, never meant for auto or truck or
tank. The silence here is heavy, another burden, the girl, you, thin as whitethorn. Threshed from your own flesh.
Any poem I start with your name
smells like fire.
It is like living in a house that
has been burning for years
Statement of Record