"By some reckonings, expenditure on political representation in Italy, all found, is equivalent to that of France, Germany, Britain and Spain combined. Beneath this crust of privilege, one in four Italians lives in poverty..."

Read the article by Perry Anderson in the 26.2.09 London Review of Books here.

evenink

English Journal #9 (1.09) is now available as a downloadable pdf here.

The issue features work by Ian Engelberger (who also did the cover), Lauren Castaldi, Maisie Theobald, Clark Johnson, Kirsten Bouthiller, and many others.

Poem by Dritëro Agolli translated by Eros Angjeli

I won't be here

I won't be here, I’ll be gone
Dissolved underground like many others
At the favorite café
The waiters won’t see me

And through the roads I’ve walked
My dry cough won’t be heard
Above my grave will silently stand
An orchard like a miserable monk

You will be saddened
Because you won’t have me alive in a room
And when the wind blows on the window
You will cry slowly with the wind

But when you are really sad
Look through the bookshelves for me,
I’ll be hiding there
Between words and letters

You’ll only need to move the book
And I’ll come down, I’ll come near you
You will laugh nostalgically like you once did
Like a blooming meadow after heavy rain


Ketu s’do jem

Këtu s'do jem do jem larguar
Ne tokë I tretur si te tjerët
Ne kafenenë e preferuar
Nuk do më shohin kamarieret

Dhe nëpër udhet ku kam ecur
S'do ndihet kolla ime e thatë
Mbi varrin tim do të rrijë I heshtur
Nje qipariz si murg I ngratë

Ti do trishtohesh ateherë
Se s'do me kesh ne dhome te gjallë
Dhe kur ne xham te fryje erë
Do qash me erën dalengadale

Por kur te jesh merzitur shumë
Ne raft te librave kerkomë
Aty do jem I fshehur unë
Ne ndonje fjalë a ndonjë shkronjë

Mjafton qe librin pak ta heqesh
Dhe un do te zbres do t'vi prane teje
Ti si dikur me mall do qeshësh
Si nje blerim pas nje rëkeje.


Poem by Dritero Agolli, translated from the Albanian by Eros Angjeli. Click here for a previously published poem by Agolli translated by Kristi Bojdani.

artwork by Katie Pierce

From a work in progress by Jon Hartmann

-Fuck that- she said.
I’ll never tell her I threw
out her grandmother’s pin and her cigarette roller
her silver fork and few grams of stale weed with a plastic cup.
All that shit in my room hovering like sarcastic parents,
I tossed them halfheartedly into a larger trash can
and they sat there with crumpled paper bags and empty bottles
regretfully shining in their sentimentality.
A few slaps on the back and a - you did the right thing bro -
and I’m on the lake, lake Michigan, glazed over by a
frozen brown organic shit crust, up to my knees in snow.
-Of course I haven’t had time to fucking talk to you, I’ve been
so busy, god Jon,-
Absurdity, I saw a dead dog by the lake and didn’t know whether
to laugh or to sigh. I laughed though and someone looked at me strangely.
I went to see Andy and he was smoking around his produce as usual.
-Check out these fucking kiwis man! Fucking take a look at them! Hold on a sec bro,-
An asian couple walks in the door
-You know brussel sprouts are the same species as broccoli?-
-You don’t say?-
And he was back, door open and spewing smoke.
-I’m going to turn the whole fucking thing into a bar man, people don’t care
about fruit, they just don’t give a damn and I’m making no money.-
I know what he means,
I rearrange some sugarcane propped up against the wall.
-People eat shit man no one wants good fruit-
I know what he means.
I was walking with Perry and a man with mismatched shoes
asked for 50cents.
-Ok-
-Hey it’s 2 dollars to ride the bus-
-Ok-
-Hey man I got kids that need to ride-
-Just take it all- he said and threw 8 dollars into his hands.
I like giving people money Perry says.
-I could NEVER be in a relationship with you-
-GOOD- she choked
It’s good I can never get that pin back.