the Yale Literary Magazine

we publish original poetry, prose, and interviews twice a year at re-publish other things we like here.  

the government of death

all in the realm of death is

nothing else but peace

its inhabitants have all received

equal rites

because they received equal rights

that is, the services, personal and


without prejudice of death


truly a great god of endless victory

after victory

what a kingdom

is the kingdom of death

its inhabitants are

without number

through the ages

they have entered

with perfect discipline

and unbending loyalty

to the majesty

of the invisible power of


all governments 

on earth

set up by men

are discriminating

but the government of death is a 

pure government

it treats all in an equal manner

it is a startling, revealing picture

of equality for all

and all in the realm of death

is nothing else but 



A new literary movement has struggled out of the muck, stretched its legs, and howled into the air. It’s called “eco-fabulism,” anointed by a panel at the 2014 AWP Conference (titled “Fabulist Fiction for a Hot Planet!”) and re-anointed (or extra-anointed?) by Matt Bell in an interview with Sonora Review. Eco-fabulism refers to a group of texts that explore, in one way or another, mankind’s destructive tendencies regarding nature

People think of compassion as, like, kindness. The image comes to mind of some nice New Age guy bending to something with a look on his face like he’s about to cry. And I don’t think that’s it.

An interview with the inimitable George Saunders, author of Tenth of December, on humor, pathos, Chicago, his parents’ diner’s “crazies,” and being edited by his inner nun.
(via millionsmillions)

Seven Prose Poems by Charles Simic

My father loved the strange books of André Breton. He’d raise the wine glass and toast those far-off evenings “when butterflies formed a single uncut ribbon.” Or we’d go out for a piss in the back alley and he’d say: “Here are some binoculars for blindfolded eyes.” We lived in a rundown tenement that smelled of old people and their pets.
         ”Hovering on the edge of the abyss, permeated with the perfume of the forbidden,” we’d take turns cutting the smoked sausage on the table. “I love America,” he’d tell us. We were going to make a million dollars manufacturing objects we had seen in dreams that night.


Bizarre - Perera Elsewhere