#TBT: Kyle Minor, “Glossolalia”

For today’s #TBT here is a quote from Kyle Minor’s story “Glossolalia” from issue 34.2.

“That’s something that worries me. It’s a little bit frightening, don’t you think, like on TV, when a lot of people are doing it all around and there’s this ungodly cacophony?”
“That’s the fear of the Lord you’re feeling.”
“How can you be sure?”
“How can you be sure of anything? You know. I know. I know that I know that I know.”

You can buy copies of this or any issue of cream city review here!

And remember to come hear Kyle Minor read at cream city Live! on November 6th!



#TBT: Chuya Nakahara, “The Moon”

With the supermoon still fresh in our minds, we bring to you Chuya Nakahara’s poem, “The Moon.”

More solitary than ever tonight, the moon
wonders at her doubting foster father.
Time hauls a silver tide away to the desert.
An old man’s earlobes flow like fireflies.

Ah, forgotten embankments of canals,
tanks, the earth resounding in my chest…
The moon pulls out a rusty silver case
and languidly smokes a cigarette.

Heels over head, seven celestial nymphs
keep dancing round about
but give no comfort

to the moon’s heart, weltering in disgrace.
O far-flung stars!
The moon awaits her executioner.

translated by Christian Nagle

Buy this whole issue or any of our other issues here. Remember, now you can buy online!



#TBT: Ihab Hassan, In Memorium

It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of contributor Ihab Hassan. His work and generosity has impacted cream city review in countless ways. Our sympathies lie with his family.

For today’s #TBT we wanted to offer the final lines of his story “Clouds” from our most recent issue, 39.1.


“In truth, whether they appeared as cumulus, stratus, cirrus, or nimbus, whether they disguised themselves as billows, contrails, or piles, the clouds dedicated all their energies to mutual annihilation. But no one, not even the poet, knew the origin of the celestial feud. Still, stories spread everywhere–cobwebbed fictions–to explain the malediction above.

At last, after shrinking to misshapen lumps, the clouds vanished. But the poet could still glimpse them at the edge of town, dust devils on an empty road, spiteful tumbleweed.”