THE NDR BLOG

Brandon Shimoda has selected Tawanda Mulalu's "Nearness," as the winner, and Haolun Xu's "Ultimate Sun Cell," as the runner-up. 🎆

We are thrilled to announce that we will be publishing both of these stunning chapbooks! ✨

Brandon writes:

“I cannot help but feel that judging a poetry contest—that judging poetry, poems—is a strange and sordid thing to do, because the process of choosing is, in part, a process that takes place in the strange and sordid vacuum of the judge’s mercurial relationship to reading. Plus, it is lonely. And yet, it is also a great privilege, because it means spending time with—and peering into—work that is on the verge of being brought into the world, and into a larger kind of judgment that is the vacuum torn open, that is life. All of the finalists—all of these chapbooks—are astonishing. All of them are filled with work that has never been seen before—that I, at least, have not seen before—by which I mean work that is unanticipated and irreducible, and that is, therefore, already changing what I know about poetry. For that reason alone, I love them, and am eager for them to be brought into the world, so that you can love them too.

I often have no idea what I think or how I feel about an experience until it transforms, in my turning away from it, into a memory, especially one that I cannot shake, or am otherwise forced to confront. That is when a relationship begins, and also, if I am paying attention, and lucky, when understanding begins. All of these chapbooks transformed into memories, and into relationships, but the one that has lodged itself most fully in my consciousness is Tawanda Mulalu’s Nearness. This is the chapbook I have chosen.

Tawanda Mulalu’s Nearness is, as a collection of poems—and as a compilation of visions and encounters—a profound and beautiful statement of the self, and of the ways in which the self generates—and reverberates—a community of feeling, feeling throughout community, and back again. The poems are panoramic yet precise. They illuminate self-determination as world-remaking, world-remaking as arrangement, arrangement as preparation, preparation as precarity, precarity as love letter, and love letter as an almost posthumous kind of fidelity to feeling. The opening and closing poems (Prayer and Poetry in America), to cite two of the most immediate examples, are hard-winning atlases, virtuosic memorials in multiple dimensions. Although what they truly are, and what they, more truly, will become, is beyond anything I might be able to say about them. And the precise panorama in between. I am excited for how this work will evolve in the company of you, imminent readers. Tawanda Mulalu’s Nearness will, to paraphrase Toni Morrison, shift the scenery.”

On runner-up Haolun Xu’s “Ultimate Sun Cell," Brandon writes:

“I have the uncanny feeling, reading Haolun Xu’s Ultimate Sun Cell, that I am watching a painting or a film being made—stroke by stroke, frame by frame—from the vantage of the afterlife. (A plein-air, impressionist, speculative, mise en abyme documentary.) Central to that feeling, and to that quality, is Xu’s intuitive and spellbinding inventory of a world at cataclysmic odds with its own intentions, and the individual’s conflicted place within it. His poems, unguarded and porous, transcribe a clear-eyed and tender Revelations. Which is maybe what awaits us off the end of the unfinished world: a poetic accounting of how the lucid definition of our experience was informed, all along, by a sensibility at once hyper-present and posthumous. To listen to your own dreams is a matter of dignity, Xu writes, but to listen to another’s – is prophecy. What if your own dreams are another’s, i.e. what if another’s dreams are your own? Xu’s poetry exists in—and invents, necessarily and profoundly—the flourishing space in between.”

What kind of work would you like to publish in NDR this year?

I’m excited by a story that takes language, turns it around, finds new angles, and presents some new idea, meaning, or way of understanding the text. One of the recent stories we have published that did this in a way that still haunts me is Barbara Lock’s The Cost of Tuna. Lock writes, “Olga’s arms would flow over the body, folding, tucking, making ready for the first grave; removing catheters, intravenous lines, making the flesh look respectable for the pathologist, medical examiner, undertaker.” The phrase “making the flesh look respectable” is repeated in various ways throughout the story, sometimes in reference to Olga, the body preparator, sometimes in reference to the dead bodies, as seen in this quote. The repetition of respectable flesh made me as a reader feel a reverence of respect for the dead body. As humans and readers living through the pandemic, how can we respect the hundreds of thousands of dead whose flesh we can’t touch, can’t fold, can’t see again? Lock’s work gives us a dark mantra for these times.

Which poets or writers have you really loved reading recently?

One book than has floored me recently is Fernanda Melchor’s Hurricane Season. Melchor’s prose in Spanish, as well as the English translation by Sophie Hughes, is of its own world—complicated, anachronistic, rough, and yet still vulnerable. The story centers around the violent murder of a young witch in the town of La Matosa and is told through the lens of four different characters—Luisma, Yesenia, Brando, and Norma. Each character offers a perspective on the murder, although much of those viewpoints are contested by the other characters. The community Melchor creates is a complex system which enacts the regular violence against women also found in Melchor’s home state of Veracruz. A novel not to miss.

What writing of your own have you been working on recently?

Although I try to keep up a creative writing practice (right now I’m playing with some short hybrid nonfiction pieces about how to expand the consciousness outside of the human) the majority of my work these days is writing my PhD dissertation. My dissertation uses an interdisciplinary archive of materials (maps! poetry! film! journalism!) to trace the tropes of climate migration along the Gulf Coast in order to understand the stakes of our cultural and material futures along the coast. I look specifically at postcolonial and ecocritical theories to support my investigation into mostly indigenous communities along the coast. Please get in touch if you would like to know more.

Claretta Holsey is a Rona Jaffe Foundation Graduate Fellow and a Literary Translation Graduate Certificate candidate at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. A three-time awardee of the Academy of American Poets prize, she recently graduated summa cum laude with a BA from Stetson University. Her poetry and creative non-fiction have been published in Eclectica Magazine, Poetry Breakfast, Fishfood Magazine, and on Poets.org and PromptPress. She has read for The Iowa Review and is reading for the microjournal Black Poetry Review.

Read her poem, “Mouth (Forsakes) Sound” in NDR 11.1 

How did you arrive at this poem? What led you to this use of mathematical language interspersed with fragmented lines of lyric poetry?

I wrote this poem when I was a sophomore at Stetson University. I was taking a course in qualitative reasoning called Intro to Logic and an Open-Studio Workshop, which allowed for all kinds of creative folk—poets, short fiction and nonfiction writers, filmmakers, musicians—to respond to prompts in their own ways. I remember a fellow poet, who majored in Biology, prompted us to use math to describe a place. I used the only kind of math I had at my immediate disposal, a language called predicate logic. This language uses variables to summarize philosophical premises and can be used to construct equations that map out and validate philosophical arguments. I got to thinking about how poetic language could similarly contract and expand—opening, hopefully, on an understanding about the nature of all language.

The slashes in this poem are borders that separate the mathematical language from the “poetry.”  Yet, as someone who studied calculus (a little) I could not help but see them, not only as borders, but also as fractions. You say, "D(m) * D(y)/ premise" and I am inclined to try and solve an equation. Could you say more about your intention with the form and use of slashes?  

I like the idea of the slash as an indicator of separation, but separation between two kinds of language that are telling the same story. I’m so very interested in duality—a math problem that is poetic, a poem lined with code, each part dependent on the other for form and meaning. You could read the slashes as a site of friction between two pieces of a single understanding, where the proximity of these pieces allows one to become the other, by association. Math as poem. And you could read the slashes as merely superficial fracture. Superficial because, in this poem, D of m and D of y is the premise of the poem’s logical proof. There is a genuine relationship between the pieces, across the broken border that, in poetry, signifies the breaking of a poetic utterance across/into a new line of thinking.

Reading the slashes as fractions, I begin to think about inversion, and you name so much "upside down" in the poem. Do you think that that's a theme this poem grapples with and if so, could you say more?

I wrote this poem with a specific place in mind: a jungle gym. Given that inspiration, the poem talks about being upended, addressing an “upside down” that is, at least in the beginning, taken literally. But then, the poem starts grappling with the notion that language makes the world go round, turns the world uncanny, makes us dizzy and deaf. I was interested in our desperation for a way to “read” the signs of the world, of the world’s language. There, fracture and inversion happen all the time.  

Is it possible to solve the mathematical problem presented by this poem?  

Well, because this poem is a logical proof, its central problem is already solved. Let me explain. To write the poem, I began with my conclusion, F, which stands for “my mouth forsakes sound,” and I set about proving this to be true by organizing and manipulating a set of propositional variables (written in bold type in the poem). As you move through the poem with me, you’re watching me use predicate logic to prove that, yes, my mouth forsakes sound. Still, on both sides of the equation, the closer you get to the conclusion, the proof/truth, the more the language breaks down. In this way, I hoped to subvert what is meant by proof. All the evidence here is subjective, and this subjectivity, which grounds the reader in something concrete, becomes increasingly incomprehensible and abstract. The language of the logic statements infiltrates the boundary of the subjective, lyrical space. At the end, we’re left with an “illogism,” by necessity.  

What is beautiful about this poem, is its ability to reach diverse audiences—it’s working on multiple levels. If someone does not know the mathematical language that you summon, the words offer a compelling story on their own, both separate from and interacting with the mathematical. If a reader doesn’t understand the math, do you think they’re reading a different poem from someone who does understand the math?

That’s a great question. I thought about readers who wouldn’t know how to vocalize the logic statements. I thought about how they might read those lines in silence, without even using their inner head voice to articulate it. I worried that readers would simply glance at those lines then glance away, like we sometimes do when reading complicated words or long surnames. But because the poem’s lyrical language is literally a translation of the math, I think readers who don’t understand the equations are still able to understand the poem’s story. I would even go so far as to say that the reader’s incomprehension of the mathematical language is part of the project of the poem.  

I remember performing this poem for an audience: I read the equations aloud and asked that the audience members on the left side of the room read the left-hand text, that the people on the right side read the right-hand text. I remember a young lady in the audience had paused on the word “wor(l)d.” That moment of indecision brought on by the “disjunction” of language is precisely what the poem is about. I think that’s legible to readers.  

 Who are you reading right now? 

I’m reading Janet Burroway’s Writing Fiction to get a handle on the craft. And I'm reading Claudia Rankine’s Just Us and Don Mee Choi’s DMZ Colony to learn how poetry can expand to include other kinds of knowledge and documentation.

* * * *

Announcing our 2020 Ryan R. Gibbs Flash Fiction Contest results, judged by Thirii Myo Kyaw Myint! 

What kind of digital media pieces excite you the most?

The digital media pieces that excite me the most are those that capture complex emotions, themes and challenge the ways I think about something and what I think about digital media, itself.

Which poets or writers have you really loved reading recently?

Lately, I’ve been reading through The Ecopoetry Anthology. My favorite pieces in there are by Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop, and Lucille Clifton.

What did you love reading as a kid?

As a kid, I loved to read survival novels or anything to do with the environment and dogs. My favorite book in elementary school was Goodbye, My Lady by James Street.

What kind of work would you like to publish in NDR this year?

Right now, I’m interested in stories that come to terms with how the world has changed since this February. That doesn’t necessarily mean stories that directly discuss current events: that feels too on the nose. But I do want to see stories grapple with the idea of metamorphosis & new normals. I am interested in stories that feel urgent and timely.

Which writers or poets have you loved reading recently?

I think the Korean literary scene right now is at a super fascinating point. There is a wave of female writers that uncompromisingly explore Korea's gendered society. My two favorites are Pyun Hye-young & Bae Suah. Bae Suah also does a lot of really interesting translation work (which is another area of interest for me). Both of them have works translated in English!

What is one previously published piece in NDR that you love and why?

Hard to pick just one but right now, it’s probably Angie Sijun Lou’s Android Girl Just Wants to Have a Baby.

It’s a bizarre and devastating (and funny) piece that explores this liminal space between artificiality & authenticity, and speaks on how new, cutting-edge technology still so often becomes a vehicle for outmoded ways of thinking. I love that it combines speculative fiction with uncompromising references to Chinese culture that does not spoon feed anything to the reader.

What writing of your own have you been working on recently?

I'm working in an utterly strange international high school right now. They blow a ram horn trumpet every morning to start the day. It's November and the temperature outside is 50 degrees Fahrenheit and yet the entire place is festering with mosquitos; other than the winged vermin, the place is spotlessly clean. I'm working on a short story that is based partially on this experience and also my encounters with strange people in Korean subways & churches.

What kind of poems excite you the most? The kind that cuts the fat off the meat and has it for a treat after the meal. I’m most interested in reading poems that say what they want to say concisely & as quickly as possible, but after I’ve finished reading—I still have a treat. I still have more to learn from what’s happened to the words, to me, and I’ll still be there the next day with the taste of it in my head. What is one previously published piece in NDR that you love and why? I am always thinking of Jihyun Yun’s poems from 9.1. I, of course, love all the poems we publish—but Yun’s poems stand out in my mind because 1) I’m a sucker for a prose poem. Prose poems, to me, take the best parts of every creative writing genre and shove them into this ludicrous little box a reader gets to open again and again. 2) What Jihyun Yun does in “Self Portrait Diptych as Animal and Womb,” for instance—is take an obviously sexist, horrendous comment from social media, and stab it through the heart—“what a flurry of knives” indeed. What is a story from your childhood that reveals something about you now? When I was a kid, I wrote letters to Santa Claus, just asking how he was. I put these in a gaudy decorative mailbox my mom had on a side table, even long after I stopped believing in Santa Claus. In fact, I still do it sometimes. I just thought it was nice… Actually, I don’t know what that says about me. I guess I’m just weird and kind? Even to mythical beings? What did you love reading as a kid? My favorite books were The Giving Tree and How to Eat a Poem, which I think says a lot. The Giving Tree really messed me up. But How to Eat a Poem: A Smorgasbord of Tasty and Delicious Poems for Young Readers is a short anthology of everything from classics to limericks all written in huge kid-friendly font. Everything from Dickinson to Poe to Clifton to Whitman. 

I’m looking for work that really pushes the boundary of the essay. I’m especially interested in formal experimentation—really as weird or as unexpected as it can get—as long as it has a deep relationship to its content. 

In terms of content, as a disabled writer, I’m always hoping to publish more work on disability and illness. I also love humor, pop culture, and the internet—anything that engages with language playfully. 

Announcing the 2019-2020 Matt Clark Editor’s Prize winners!

Sophia Terazawa, for “Closing Statement”

&

Rachel Stempel, for “Rule of Three”

2020 Best of the Net Nominees!

Read em:

http://ndrmag.org/poetry/2020/05/my-mother-sings-the-national-anthem/

http://ndrmag.org/poetry/2020/05/from-which/

http://ndrmag.org/poetry/2019/12/two-poems-tr-brady/

http://ndrmag.org/poetry/2019/12/two-poems-rosie-stockton/

http://ndrmag.org/fiction/2020/05/out-on-the-isthmus/

http://ndrmag.org/fiction/2019/12/world-of-rings/

Our wonderful Asst. Nonfiction Editors weigh on in what they’re hoping to publish this year!

From Misty Fuller:

What kind of work are you looking for this year?

The work I'm looking for this year are collections of words. Words that are collected in a unique way. So unique that even the way in which they are collected says something about what they're already saying.

What essays excite you the most?

I'm excited about getting outside of the world that I call my own. To find a text that can expand my world to accept others is by far the most treasured among all the things I read.

What themes or forms or styles pique your interest?

I tend to be attracted to styles that are coming into their own. A style that feels familiar yet is distinct to that one author. Maybe it's a little unsure. Maybe it's still quiet and subtle, but it's there. It is within this style that I feel I can work with the author to build or interpret.  

Any writers you think are most indicative of the kind of work you're searching for?

A new favorite of mine is Jennie. B. Ziegler. The classics for me are James Baldwin and Joan Didion. But I also enjoy Roxane Gay because I don't agree with her as often as I think I would. She challenges me. I'm a huge fan of Toni Morrison's work. I also envy the boldness of Sarah Kane and Kathy Acker.

And from Haley Moore:

I typically write satire, but it's not what I look for. I enjoy it, but I think all my favorite works are dark and depressing, but with only the slightest hints of comedy (just because nothing should be taken that seriously). I generally look for works that start at the beginning and end at the end part, but I don't want to ask too much. I'm a very visual person so pages and pages of narrative (even if done well) will be difficult for me to read. As I'm reading a submission, I generally imagine the author as the same sort of person, so any type of writing that dislodges that image will make an impression on me. It's a cliche and I hate it, but I really just want to read something that's told in an authentic voice, so that it stands out from the buzz.

I’m looking for both the broad and specific, which is an annoying way to say I want all forms of media that engage with language in a surprising way. There should be a deep relationship between form and content. I’m talkin’ Joseph Cornell boxes made digital. I’m talkin’ Laurie Anderson’s Heart of a Dog. I’m talkin’ Martha Rosler’s ‘Semiotics of the Kitchen’. I’m talkin’ William Kentridge’s anything. I’m talkin’ Jonathan Talbat collages. Just keep us talkin’. I would love to publish more work by disabled authors in general, and would especially love to publish work about health/disability/etc.

Because it’s flash fiction season, a word from Fiction Editor Sam Bickford on his favorite stories:

“I am interested in work that is accidentally good, or purposefully bad. A combination of Cesar Aira, Sylvia Plath, and a very dead guy like Tolstoy. Send your unformed but very much loved stories, your surprising stories, your beautiful stories. We want the neglected step-child all grownup and made good on its less than ideal childhood.”

Send us your step-children!!

More info about NDR’s 2019-20 Ryan R. Gibbs Flash Fiction Contest here: