The Paris Review, Winter 2024 & Spring 2025, the Poetry Reviewed So You Don't Have to Bother.

Is poetry world getting worse? Please comment.

I review the poetry in two issues of the The Paris Review, so you don’t have to bother.

The Paris Review, or might I say, the venerable Paris Review, is an odd critter in literary magazine world. I remember reading the Paris Review interviews with poets in the 1970’s, and interviewed poets would talk about poetry, poets they liked, and how their own poetry progressed or what they were trying to accomplish, and then a few of their poems followed—poems which did the exact opposite of what the poet just said one page back. In other words, the poets said one thing and their poems did the opposite. The disconnect always baffled me.

The Paris Review, which is located in New York, has a long history, beginning in new creative energies and now, mainstream fashion and worldwide political correctness. Turn the first page in each issue and an ad for Hermes appears. Hermes is located in Paris and is a world-wide famous high end store famous for scarves, jewelry, handbags, and other fashionable accoutrements. Let’s stop right here and say that I have nothing against expensive fashion of any sort. I bought my wife two scarves from Hermes. May everyone dress up and go to the ball in style. Why not?

Then the next page, issue 250, Winter 2024, is gabrielahearst.com ad, $2,000 boots and $6,000 flimsy dresses. The next two page spread is a black and white drawing of The Plaza de Concorde in Paris, the exact location where over 1,100 beheadings of rich people occurred during the French Revolution. Do people see this kind of disconnect? The next page is a full color ad for Oak Street Bootmakers, nice leather boots and shoes, expensive but maybe worth the money, I wouldn’t know.

The next page is a full color ad for Massican, Mediterranean White Wines made in the Napa Valley. What are Mediterranean wines doing in Napa valley? Questions, questions! Sounds like a whole lot of poetic ad-copy!

The next page is a full color ad for “Gagosian.” An abstract image of dripping paint is shown, so if one is curious, one can Google for for more info, and find that Gagosian is an art gallery at 980 Madison Ave, New York. The ad itself does not say, art gallery. This kind of oblique presentation is snooty, to say the least, I think. Obviously, if you need to do an internet search to find out what an ad is advertising, you just are not “in the know” and you also don’t live on Madison Ave in New York.

Next is the masthead, which prints over 100 names, editors to interns to early founders.

Next page is an ad for Islamic Arts Biennale, The Second Edition in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.

Next is the Paris Review inviting you to The Spring Revel, honoring Anne Carson, and you must email or internet research for more information.

Next is a picture of sorts, a blank black rectangle with some fuzzy dots, and the caption says, Ala Ebtekar, Nightfall, (After Asimov and Emerson) (4), 2017, cyanotype exposed by starlight on found book page, 9 1/2 x 5 9/10 in. Well, to me it looks like mold spores under a cheap microscope., but you know, these arty types have to be arty.

Next page is the table of contents, and the poetry, as the placement mode seems to be a trend, is scattered on pages between interviews, prose, and art.

Next is an ad for Ursula, a magazine of Contemporary Culture. What culture?

Next is an ad for “Self Portrait as a coffee Pot” which seems to be something streaming on Mubi, of which I know nothing.

Next is another ad with simplistic childish drawings of a book, hands holding a book, hands throwing a book, a book flying among clouds. McNally Jackson Books, New York. Another obtuse ad approach. More upscale snooty stuff. Look it up. They must be so cool they don’t have to say who or what they are about.

Next is an ad, (in each issue) a kind of announcement, Asop and the Paris Review — on the same page. Here is where the ad copy gets, well, dumb. “Now more than ever we believe literature has the power to nurture meaningful connections, nourish weary minds and give voice to those whose words have, for too long, been kept in the margins—so, here’s to the next chapter.” Aesop is a soap company. So, a soap company thinks literature has power for meaningful connections—and to give voice to those whose “words” have been kept in the margins, and so they want to replace one group of words with another group of words, right? Right. Everybody has a voice—this was taught in the universities starting in the 80’s and 90’s—whereas the voice is more important than the sense.

Does every company or organization have to have a social stance on everything—for the good of the people?

You see what is going on here? The more international the magazine can be, the more the magazine can charge the international companies more advertising fees. Money rules.

All art is in some manner a luxury of a sort.

Whether to make art, enjoy art, to buy art, to learn to appreciate art, to know how art matters, all is luxury. So, I don’t really know what to make of literary magazines with high priced luxury product advertisements. Advertising has always been part of print publications, but still, there are weighty connotations to be considered, too complex for me to extrapolate in clear terms. Lefty politics in lit mags is another whole discussion.

Next page is given over to a small black and white rendering of the Paris Review logo, which is an odd looking eagle which holds in its claws an ink pen, the kind to be dipped in ink. On the eagle’s head, is a helmet of some sort. The eagles face is upturned with either an arrogant or a smug look. The wings are stubby and the legs stand in a stepping stance, a kind of pose, a kind of pretentious pose modern fashion models take, unnatural. The theme continues; eagles don’t wear helmets and eagles don’t hold pens.

Finally, after 10 page turns, a short story appears, and it is a translation from Arabic. But I focus on the poetry. Also, I also usually avoid commenting on poetry translations, since I’ve never read a translation that made poetic sense—which means that I have to translate what the translator is translating into logic without the interference of the translator’s translation so that I can get at the original author’s poetic intent and I seldom get that far with the poetry being lost in the translation.

The poems are on pages 26, 57, 102, 173, 186, scattered around, for certain. The table of contents page is stuck between pages of advertisements. This ever so clever trick is to get the reader to see the ads because the magazine seems more interested in ads than content. But we knew that already.

The first poem is from “Cruel Loss of Sons” by Egill Skallagrimsson translated from the Old Norse by Emily Osborne. I know nothing of this so can say nothing. The work sounds like a saga of sorts, a journey, a homecoming, a death.

…

Now my track is
treacherous. Odin’s
foe’s close kinswoman
waits on the cliff.
Even so, I’m on
an even keel, not
sorrowful, willingly
waiting for Hel.

There is far too much extrapolation and possibly historic information to comment on this piece, but it reads well and, well, seems to cover Viking macho thinking becoming sentimental in the end. I also think that this is a patsy setup—adding a genuine literary endeavor, translating historic poetry—to make literary people think the TPR is a real literary magazine, and not a social rag with social issues.

The next poem, hand-to-hand pass is by Simone White, which starts;

State of Georgia v. Jeffery Lamar Williams

a.k.a. Young Thug et al.

one of the Williams motions
in limine
recounts the hand-to-hand pass
of a percocet pill
which brings to mind
the word for activities I do
roughly grouped
by the goal
of my son’s
thriving: caregiving.

this misnaming
contributes
to a disgusting fiction
regarding the activity of mothers
who live outside the couple form

the white couple.

the hand-to-hand pass
between the accused
and the agent of the police
friend
associate
codefendant...

And this goes on for two pages. I can’t really say anything about this writing except that it reads erratic and is almost an illogical rant such as I’ve never read before. I can barely follow the thinking in the lines, especially the last part, not quoted here, which is totally without grammar or punctuation or sense. If I sit and think about the words, I gather that someone committed a crime but the law does not consider who the criminal person actually is as a person. So, nice people who commit crimes should not be prosecuted? Usually, whenever illegal drugs are involved with anything, everything go wrong.

The next poem is Toilet by Hua Xi, which begins;

A toenail clipping floating in a toilet bowl
like a crescent moon reflected in water,
beauty is quiet and self-conscious.
A character in a novel
sits on the toilet.
This goes on for awhile, wandering aimlessly, with
I squatted over a toilet
until I shit a cloud out into a pure blue sky.

…

Me? At the very least, I’ll pee
every day until I die.

…

At the end of the day,
it is my life.

I do wonder what a poetry editor has in mind when choosing such poems. It is almost as if this kind of editor has a self destructive mode hidden in their unconscious. Print poems with shock appeal, because the rest of their world is so vacuous that only shock shows through?

Here is the present poetry editor of The Paris Review reading his own poetry on Youtube, but there do seem to be poetry editorial assistants as noted in the masthead. What is your impression of his reading?

So, the first poem is about drugs, the second is scatalogically themed, the third is There are Journeys by Sargon Boulus, translated from the Arabic by Miles Cayman. As I said, I avoid translations, but I might as well try to see what transpires. The poem is possibly about a guy thinking about his bride—who is hidden somewhere—and who doesn’t have much of a voice, apparently. It is all about the guy.

The next two poems are by a suburban New Englander, Rachel Mannheimer, the first, The Car, two pages of plain simple prose set out in broken stanzas pretending to be some poetic form. The last portion;

…

when we were together, it was often he who drove.
But sometimes we drove separately, we drove ourselves
to different destinations—
to the store. I drove to walk,
to go on walks.
We had two cars. We both could drive.
And after he broke up with me—
after we broke up—we disagreed
about which car
belonged to each of us.

Of course, this is plain journal entry writing, and why anyone would consider this poetry is incomprehensible to me, and the subject is two people who argue over possessions after a break up—and that is it? Utterly pointless—ah, but that is what the magazine approves, I guess. There seldom is an explanation as to exactly why a poem is chosen to be published and the reason for that is that there is no reason except some poofy idea about which no one can really argue. The second poem by Mannheimer is the same rambling prose form of a mind talking to itself. The last portion of New Haven, which is possibly about a break up as well, is about raccoons getting into houses, and wildlife removal experts and here is the last portion;

Regarding raccoons, Connecticut law
requires you kill if you can’t release
on the property. This house—
with its small patch of grass,
double doors which, even if locked,
you could open just by pushing—
this house was not my property
and when the lease was up, I’d know. [end of poem]

Absolutely atrocious writing. Not only plain prose, but badly written talky prose. I think the Paris review is trying to outdo the New Yorker with stupid poems.

The spring 2025 Paris Review issue begins much the same, with a few other color ads for various arty things, all on the level of Hermes or Andy Warhol phony aesthetics, so there is no reason to go over New York “art-consultant” (crap salespeople) snooty presentations.

The issue has seven poems. The first is by Abigail Dembo, The Common Era;

The first line:

After the last century—what a century!

and the last portion:

A penny for the man who would dare kiss it.
A penny for the man who would walk back down
its southern steps.
A steep cemetery of a smile,
the last century—what a century!
What a large cemetery. What a long cemetery.
What a large, green cemetery.

If you put lots of repetition and vague innuendo in haphazard form you too can write poetry and be published! It is easy! Also remember to add exclamation points, meaningless phrases; “A steep cemetery of a smile, …” and odd references, “…southern steps…” and catchy lines, “A penny for the man who would dare kiss it.” Kiss what? Oh, just skip it, what this, what that…!

The next poem is by Nasser Rabah, translated from the Arabic by Wiam El-Tamami, The War is Over. I won’t quote the poem, a litany of gross things, but it seems to be a discussion about being in a war and then suffering PTSD. Well, who doesn’t suffer from being in war? In other words, in war, people are killed and many suffer later as well. That is a poem? Not really, but gosh, it certainly does serve political nuance of some sort, without really saying so, right? Oh, cool.

The next poem is by Susan Howe, from Penitential Cries. Two whole pages of what appears to be random notation without anything cohesive. This is a good example of an old defensive posture in writing: if you just throw up enough confetti into the air the reader does not know what is really being presented so the reader cannot say anything specific, good or bad. Here a picture of the second part of the poem, and if you enjoy things like this, good for you. You will find a home in The Paris Review.

(I think this poem is relating to language poetry.)

[end of poem, no punctuation at the end.]

The next poem is by D. A. Powell, Project Apollo. Unfortunately, I have read this piece twice and still have no idea what the poem is about. Why is that? It is all inference, almost dream-like with perverse undertones. Similar to the confetti approach, the murky writing is like sticking your hand into a garbage can, feeling around and hoping not to be cut by glass or something worse, like weird thoughts from a weird poet. And poets are often weird, have you noticed? Why is that? Where is the normal poet? Where is the poet without ego? Here is the last portion;

… Paul Newman
played Fast Eddie Felson and appeared
in a theater near me and also wet
daydreams. I used to splash myself
with his dressing, undressing on the billiard
table and later by the pool of a poodle
groomer who tried to coif me he
never came up for air, he also scratched
also the god of archery of games of hawks
of the discus and of the stray. the ricochet

[end of poem, no punctuation. I have no idea what to make of “… he also scratched also the god of archery of hawks of the discus…” Exactly what kind of bad writing is this?]

Good grief. This is what is considered poetry? I think they have outdone the New Yorker.

The writing is nearly incoherent on any level of common sense. And somewhat perverse. Poetry seems to be going down into nonsense, if one reads The Paris Review. I think there is something in the water or some other substances affecting rational thought as I read such writing.

The next poem in the Spring 2025 issue is by Edward Salem, My Aerodynamics, which begins;

As I fell from the sky, I smelled fish.
The fish was in my mouth.
My eyes were fish eyes, bulging, bugged out.

…

Open sky, open darkness.
I drank. I pissed myself.
I stripped my clothes off in the sky.
I was very cold. I hugged myself
and it changed my aerodynamics.
I began to spinning out of control.
I vomited clear rain.
I refused water.
Refused breath.

…

I’d never leave this blue prison.
How quickly my mind adjusted,
but I was dangerously bored. [end of poem]

He is not the only one. Surely the author is having a personal problem of sorts, and thought the best thing to do was to put his problem into jumbled clichés with outside references about which the reader can only guess. Do you see how this structure is similar to the oblique advertising approach in the ads I described above?

This is the snooty poo-bah of fake intellectuals who think you, the reader or viewer, must leap towards them to get a ‘message.’

In this poem, the form is just truncated prose set in faux stanzas.

The next poem is by Nanna Storr-Hansen, translated from the Danish by Sophia Hersi Smith. Again, I usually avoid translations but here I set out the whole short poem so the premise is clear.

Spring

I am the beech tree
I am wearing gills
here’s a piece you can take
in your hands
there’s only one season under capitalism
spring
there’s only one season under capitalism
spring [end of poem]

Is this a new trend, dispensing of punctuation and grammar? I’m surprised at how often poems do not even end in a period. So, this one seems to be a dig at capitalism? In a capitalistic magazine, with advertising for rich people who are rich because of capitalism? Frankly, what is it with these people who can’t seem to think straight?

The last poem, thank goodness, is by Nora Fulton, La Comedie-Francaise. I am not going to bother to find the little accents over the e and under the c.

I like it when I’m looking
At a woman’s wrists
I like it when a woman likes to look at my wrists
Not all the time
But they look good
And we both like to look
So it’s all good
And more or less I like it when I look

…

And much later
Pitting spotted plums in the shade
Stretching linen tablecloths in the shade
Sitting together in the shade
And keeping to it
I felt there should’ve been more
Shade, that is
Wrist to wrist [end of poem. Again, no punctuation.]

Well, there you go. What on earth are people thinking with such bad poetry (not including the first translation of Old Norse by Emily Osborne in this review, which seems to be a straight literary endeavor.)

There no longer seems to be the concept of literature in the poetry world, but more a focus on editorial-decisions-as-political-socio-sexual-weirdo-shock-appeal. I am afraid to read the short stories and interviews in these issues since I don’t want more such smudges of junk in my brain.

Here is a brief subject summary of the poems:

Old Norse translation
Racism
Scatological imagery
Arabic oppression
Bad raccoons
Racism
Arabic PTSD
Odd ramblings
Weirdo innuendos, homosexuality?
Personal problems, vague
Capitalism is bad?
Lesbianism?

Oh, by the way, remember all those capitalistic ads in the beginning of each magazine, where the table of contents and masthead are sandwiched between, so if one needs to reference a page or author the ads must be thumbed repeatedly? —oh, don’t forget to notice, that on the last page before the last ad—for Fine Jewelry (“The finest fine jewelry”)—is a little paragraph which says,

“The Paris Review is grateful for the support of its friends. Please send your tax-deductable contributions to The Paris Review Foundation, …” and the address follows with more info.

How does what appears to be a capitalistic magazine receive tax-deductable contributions? Are ad payments considered tax-deductable if they pay money to The Paris Review? The Paris Review is printed in Canada. A full page color ad one time is $4,500. That sounds capitalistic to me. Or are those ads covered as donations?

What on earth has happened to the art of poetry? Is this for real? It is for real! Where on earth is common sense?