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My AWP Events

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See you at AWP! Here are my events:Translating the Untranslatable: A Reading of International Experimental Poetry with Jennifer Kwon Dobbs, Michele Gil-Montero, and Anna Halberstadt, moderated by Larissa ShmailoThursday, 3/5/209:00 am - 10:15 AMRoom 211, Henry B. González Convention Center, Meeting Room LevelWhat Kind of Times Are These? Immigrant Poets and the New Politics of Resistance with Valzhyna Mort, Anna Halberstadt, Larissa Shmailo, and Mariya Deykute, moderated by Olga Livshin.Thursday, 3/5/203:20:PM–04:35:PMRoom 214B, Henry B. González Convention Center, Meeting Room Level

BARR MUST RESIGN

Larissa's Blog -

Bill Barr is a believer in the unitary presidency, the theory that the president has complete power over the executive branch, including the judiciary department; immunity from oversight; as well as other powers in direct violation of Article II of our Constitution and its framers' intent. We need legislation to uphold the independence of the judiciary, now protected only by norms easily violated by Trump and his AG henchman. And Barr should resign over his interference in the Stone trial, for lying about the Mueller report, and for using the judiciary for vendettas against Trump's opponents - even Barr is ashamed of himself, hence his embarrassment over Trump's tweets which reveal him to be the Trump tool he is.

As LONG AS YOU STAY SMALL

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The children at the border have evaporated the commercials show happy banks surely everything will stay the same and I will not be affected the documents about the children at the border have evaporated on the commercials the banks are happy surely I will not be affected I am small and will stay that way I AM AFRAID I didn't mean it when I said never Trump but Sheila did and she doesn't think we are happy and the same take her I am here in the happy bank it chimes so jovially the children at the border are no longer there we would care if they were the banks are happy jovially chiming and the commercials are the same happy happy and nothing will change as long as I stay small.

SLY BANG REVIEWED IN INTO THE VOID

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Read Charles Rammelkamp's review of Sly Bang, which appears in the current issue of edgy print journal Into the Void.
Sly Bang by Larissa ShmailoReviewed by Charles Rammelkamp
“Sly Bang”NovelSpuyten Duyvil, 2019$18.00, 198 pagesISBN: 978-1-947980-98-3
Larissa Shmailo’s novel feels like a mash-up of William Burroughs’s paranoid mind-control fantasies and the kaleidoscopic space fantasies of superhero comic books. Indeed, the “sly bang” in the title alludes to the plot to destroy the universe by the – mad scientist? sui generis bad guy? – Prince Eugene (Genya) Ouspensky that the protagonist, Nora (as in Ibsen’s Doll House), aka, Larissa Ekaterina Anastasia Nikolayenvna Romanova, is determined to thwart. But this is not a traditional what-happens-next narrative, though by the end it does “feel” like a resolution has been reached.
But people die and come back to life all over the place, so who can tell, and we are often treated to flashbacks to World War II era concentration camps and Soviet gulags. Ouspensky pursues Nora/Larissa through the whole strange space-time warp of this science-ficitiony world. Ouspensky can read Nora’s mind, trying to control her. But “Larissa artfully dodges sex with Ouspensky by role-playing Anna and Vronsky, Lara and Zhivago, and he enjoys this.” Nora is an FBI agent (not necessarily a good thing, more sinister than salubrious) with telepathic, comic book superhero powers of her own.
Speaking of “sly,” Shmailo often makes these amusing, satirical references to the cornerstones of western civilization, from Heidegger and Nietzsche and Tolstoy to John Lennon and Patti Smith. “Hillary Clinton lay on the table wriggling, bound and gagged.” Johnny Depp provides occasional voiceover.
Shmailo uses a variety of literary forms in the construction of her novel. The book opens up, stage drama-like, with stage direction and setting and off-stage voices, as we encounter Nora masturbating on a leather couch.  As in a play, the dialogue is written:
MICHAEL:  Hey there!
NORA: Hello, Michael, are there walls between us, buildings, I hope?
MICHAEL: Yes, and I’ve triple-locked the door and bound my feet…
The writing then moves to a more conventional style of an omniscient narrator voice moving the story along. But don’t get used to any particular style! Shmailo seems to be having fun subverting readers’ expectations.
For just as easily, Shmailo will burst out into poetry, including sublime lyrics like HOW MY FAMILY SURVIVED THE CAMPS, Nora’s poem.
            Was micht nicht umbringt, macht mich starker:            What does not kill me makes me stronger.            Nietzsche said this about other things.            Not this.
            How did my family survive the camps?            Were they smarter, stronger than the rest?            Were they lucky?            Did luck exist in Dora-Nordhausen,            Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen?
This comes from an episode involving Nora’s mother, Leda, in which we read in Nora’s backstory, reminiscent of the “origin story” of so many comic book superheroes. Leda, we learn, conceives Nora in the Brooklyn neighborhood of Williamsburg in 1946 “with the last sex she will ever have.” Of course, Leda’s resentment about this is a factor later on.
But it’s best not to give away the plot, spoiler-like, especially as the plot, like a dream, is subject to the interpretation of every reader, which may be the ultimate point of Shmailo’s satire.  Still, after so much gore and blood and guts and sexual perversity, it’s hard not to smile at the fairy tale ending when the character Bensinck “dropped to one knee and took her hand” like Prince Charming swooning over Cinderella. Dim the lights. Shine a soft spot on the dude. With what seems the sincerity only an earnest fairy tale prince can display, he says to her, “No more undercover, no more faking it. Just us, and a quarter of the world’s land mass.” Hah!
And Nora, God bless her, having just a moment before read through a story she’s written about killing Ouspensky after he has an orgasm inside her (“ He starts fucking her with his tiny dick and Nora starts fantasizing about killing him and it turns her on.”), smiles sweetly and responds: “And create a world safe for our children, Albert? Or am I going too fast for you?”   
But wait, that’s not all! The story is followed by APPENDIX; NORA’S SLAA SEXUAL HARMS INVENTORY (FRAGMENT). Her sexual ideal? “I have sex with a man  whom I love and respect and trust and am attracted to and who loves and respects and trusts me and is attracted to me as part of a committed relationship and as a byproduct of sharing and partnership. Our sex is creative, playful, imaginative and hot. [following pages illegible]”  There follows a series of fragments about various men and her “reasons for getting involved.”
Do you get the uncomfortable feeling that Shmailo is playing the reader, having us on? It’s this discomfort that’s finally at the heart of the writing, masterful satire whose object is constantly shifting and, yes, may be you. You just have to read Sly Bang yourself and come to your own conclusions.  You won’t regret it.



Charles Rammelkamp

Trump's Second, Third, and Fourth Terms

Larissa's Blog -

I am having a hard time dealing with the post-truth environment tonight. The Russian military is at it again, hacking the 2020 election, the same actors that hacked 2016. The president tweets that he is protecting people with pre-existing conditions even as he is in court to eliminate these protections. Tonight, the constant barrage of lies and propaganda intensifies through new media outlets that outFox Fox (OAN). How easily we have adapted - no outrage, no people in the streets, everyone at home watching their six hours of repetitive hypnotic advertising, binge eating and binge watching. Honestly, I thought we would put up more of a fight. I was wrong. Welcome to Weimar.

Translation of "VOW" by Iranian Poet Mohammad Mostaghimi

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Iranian poet Mohammad Mostaghimi (Rahi) has translated a number of my poems into Persian. Below is his translation of my poem "Vow." POETS WANT PEACE!VOW
We will love like dogwood
Kiss like cranes
Die like moths
I promiseلاريسا شمايلو 2007پيمان بهارما عشق خواهيم ورزيدمثل زغال اختهبوسه خواهيم زدمثل درناهاخواهيم مردمثل پروانگانمن نويد مي‌دهمگزاشتار: محمّد مستقيمي(راهي)

READING FROM MY NOVEL SLY BANG, Feb 5

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The Poetry in Prose, the Prose in Poetry: A ReadingWednesday, February 5, 2020, 6 p.m.PROGRAM LOCATIONS:Jefferson Market Library, First FloorASL interpretation and real-time (CART) captioning available upon request. Please submit your request at least two weeks in advance by emailing accessibility@nypl.org.Wednesday, February 5 at 6 pmThe Poetry in Prose, the Prose in Poetry:  Blurring the LinesA Reading featuring:Larissa Shmailo
Alan Baxter
Bonnie Walker
Dean KostosPresented in the first floor Willa Cather Room.  All events are free and open to the public.

OVER

Larissa's Blog -

Come out of the darkness about depression this holiday.
OVEROn the perfect roof, near a perfect ledge,A small terra firma with a narrow edge,No temporizing with last-minute balance,No handhold, no foothold, no anchor, no ballast.And once committed, once into the air,No hovering, no kiting, no waiting there.The polygonal street and the shining dark carsAttacked at meters per second squared.Once over, soon over: a thing done just once:Like fireworks and New Years’ bells, fast and intense,Quite finite, soon finished, thought long, slow begun,And forgotten by others like the old year now done.

A NATIVITY POEM BY JOSEPH BRODSKY ("NO MATTER . . . ")

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NATIVITY (“NO MATTER . . . “ )by Joseph BrodskyTranslated by Larissa ShmailoNo matter what surrounded them andwhat the blizzard wailed at the sand,that their shepherd’s den was close, northat they had no place else anywhere:First, they were together. Second (mainly),they were a threesome now, and, plainly,all created, anticipated, or gifted for themwas now shared by three, at a minimum.Above, in the icy sky over their camp,with the habit of big towering over slight,glittered a star, which, from then on, hadnowhere to hide from the baby’s sight.The bonfire blazed till the log’s last ember,and everyone slept. The star, unlike others,greater than its glow, at its absolute nadircould know an alien as a beloved neighbor.
Не важно, что было вокруг, и не важно,о чем там пурга завывала протяжно,что тесно им было в пастушьей квартире,что места другого им не было в мире.Во-первых, они были вместе. Второе,и главное, было, что их было трое,и всё, что творилось, варилось, дарилосьотныне, как минимум, на три делилось.Морозное небо над ихним приваломс привычкой большого склоняться над малымсверкало звездою -- и некуда детьсяей было отныне от взгляда младенца.Костер полыхал, но полено кончалось;все спали. Звезда от других отличаласьсильней, чем свеченьем, казавшимся лишним,способностью дальнего смешивать с ближним.

AWP International Experimental Poetry Panel on ALTA Blog

Larissa's Blog -

Thanks to ALTA, the American Literary Translators Association, for listing our AWP event, Translating the the Untranslatable: A Reading of International Experimental Poetry with Marc VincenzHelene CardonaJennifer Kwon Dobbs, Michele Gil-Montero and moderated by me, on their blog.Translation Events at AWP20Posted on December 11, 2019 by Planning to come to San Antonio from March 4 – 7, 2020 for the Association for Writers & Writing Programs (AWP) conference to enjoy North America’s largest literary conference? Then be sure to check out this list of translation-related events! Take a peek and get planning today. Thursday, March 5, 2020

9:00 am to 10:15 amRoom 211, Henry B. González Convention Center, Meeting Room Level. Translating the Untranslatable: A Reading of International Experimental Poetry. (Larissa Shmailo, Marc Vincenz, Hélène Cardona, Michelle Gil-Montero, Jennifer Kwon Dobbs) From the manifestos of Breton to the wordplay of Stein to the fantastical lines of Borges, avant garde movements have always driven poetry into revolutionary directions. This panel offers a panoramic view of international experimental poetries by noted world translators from French, German, Korean, Russian, and Spanish (Latin American) poets of the 20th and 21st centuries. Intercultural and intersectional issues in translation will be discussed as panelists read from a range of avant poetries.

2019 Lit Roundup, with Gratitude

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What a whirlwind year 2019 has been ! I have been honored to read with amazing poets and wrtiers this year at AWP and on tour for my new novel, SLY BANG. We blew up sex writing in Portland with Thaddeus RutkowskiJonathan PentonCecilia Tan, and the iconic Erica Jong; we auteured poetry editorship with Kwame Dawes, Marc VincenzMichael Anania, and Sam Truitt.
Wonderful Russians and Americans alike helped me celebrate SLY BANG this year - supporting my "psychosexual feminist ebullience " were readings by Annie FinchRon KolmIrina MashinskiAnton YakovlevRegina KhidekelDon YortyAnna HalberstadtAndrey GritsmanThaddeus generously again, Dean KostosMichael T. YoungStephanie StricklandAlexander VeytsmanElizabeth L. Hodges and the late great Steve Dalachinsky, who read on my birthday and picked (of course) the most experimental section to perform, brilliantly. Deep thanks to all the SLY BANG reviewers, incuding Jeff HansenBaron DraveKimberly Rae Lorenz-Copeland, and MCQ Michael W McHugh!
Many great pubs, including Annie Finch's upcoming blockbuster anthology, Choice Words: Writers on Abortion, Bernard Meisler's Sensitive Skin anthology, Anna Halberstadt's Russian edition of the Cafe Review, the St. Petersburg Review, KGB Lit, and many more. And unexpected and wonderful, thanks to Marie C Lecrivain for nominating me for Sundress Best of the Net in creative nonfiction!
Deep respect and love to my co-ediitor and legendary Russian translator, Philip Nikolayev, for his contributions to our new anthology, From Pushkin to Pussy Riot: Russian Political Poetry and Prose, as well as to our remarkable poets, essayists, and translators; blessings upon Virginia Konchan of www.MatterMonthly.com for hosting us wild Slavs.
Next year brings new forays into international experimental poetry, immigrant literature and the politics of resistance, more SLY BANG events, and vigorous political activism. Until then, happiest of holiday seasons and best literary wishes!

MY ANSWERS TO "THE POETRY QUESTION"

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#TPQ5#TPQ5: LARISSA SHMAILOUlysses – James JoyceI imitate him; if I have any originality, it comes out, and if not, what could be better than more hydraheaded Joyce?Mark TwainHis story, “”How I Edited an Agricultural Paper,” lifted me out of a clinical depression.Anna Karenina – TolstoyI love how the writer in T, the great writer, made this novel more than the morality play he first intended; I fantasize Anna, brilliant and innovative, alive, if T could have take the next step.David MarksonThe erudite one-sentence wonders of his unique narratives partly inspired my short story -poem – genre bending “Mirror, or a Flash in the Pan.”John Donne – “Go and Catch a Falling Star”Beautiful masculine trochees; I love Donne’s dirty prosody.Larissa Shmailo is a poet, novelist, translator, editor, curator, and critic. Her new novel is Sly Bang; her first novel is Patient Women. Her work is included in the libraries of Harvard, Stanford, Yale, Princeton, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Smithsonian. Please see more about Shmailo at www.larissashmailo.com

"Fitness," or Why I Have No Children

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Thanks to Marie LeCrevain of poetic diversity-the litzine of LA, for publishing "FITNESS." 

READ "FITNESS" HERE 
The definition of fitness in genetics is to reproduce successfully. I have no genetic fitness. I did once: my genetic material was carried by my sister’s daughter, my godchild and niece, Irene, whom I raised and let down. She committed suicide at the age of 35. She was a psychiatrist who knew pharmacology well and a determined individual who said that if she were to kill herself, she would do it so that no one would know. And so she did.
        As a young woman, I seemed to want to get pregnant pretty badly. I had many boyfriends and did not use birth control. Mentally ill and quite alcoholic, I had three abortions, two by a kind brilliant father and one by either of two men, a pockmarked writer or a mediocre bassist. It never occurred to me to tell the kind brilliant father, with whom I had a long-term relationship, about the pregnancies; my mother said he would not want to know and I accepted that. It turned out she was right.
    I had a complete nervous breakdown at the time of my third abortion, with a vivid hallucination of a brown, curly-headed fetus, the subject of my poem “Abortion Hallucination”:

Abortion Hallucination

A vision of a snake with glowing red eyes
formed by the light of garbage trucks and screeching new cars
driven by men who had once bought me dinner
then hated me when I didn’t want to fuck them twice.

Carlight passing late at night on a street of an ugly
precinct lying deceiving the unwary who think it leads home

It is late so dark it is almost light that time of night when
the light hits the metal and the glass of summer windows left ajar
make me want something someone I don’t know who

The metal gate to the yard refracts this message via Queens boys who
drive too fast too late at night refracts this message to the window where
I watch from the couch

In the corner of the basement where my father used to lie I

Watch, interested, as the snake
grows larger and more menacing I am
taken slightly aback but remember him remember that I like
handling snakes and smile
and as always he softens grows smaller
becomes a hippopotamus I have won again I have stared him down
made him warm
and the Nile gives up its life to me
animals carnivorous and calm come home to me
two by two

I watch for the longest time
until the largest fills the window with his face
black as light
Agnus Dei

for this man’s baby for this man’s baby for this man’s baby
came the flood.

    I contented myself with being my niece’s crazy aunt, and she idolized me as a child. Later, as she saw my feet of clay, the hero worship ended and she became more distant, going about med school and being married and becoming rich. Around then, in my thirties, sober and functioning on a successful med combo, I saw I might have the chance not to totally wreck a poor child’s life. I had an intense desire to have a child. The problem was that I would need to come off my teratogenic medications. I tried: I was stark raving mad for three years until I finally gave the idea up.
    I became more committed and involved as a poet and sublimated my reproductive instincts. And there was still my niece, brilliant and successful. Until the call in the middle of the night in October twelve years ago from my sister: “Lora, Irene is dead.” Dead. I was sober and I couldn’t smoke, but my sister and I hit every IHOPS in the suburbs of San Francisco, eating ourselves into a coma during the funeral and the wake. I gained 50 pounds that autumn.
    My pen doesn’t flow for Irene – the ink drips slowly and meagerly, like clotted blood. I am aware that I am not her mother and don’t have a mother’s right to grieve. But I can still feel her tiny hands pulling on the hairs of my arms as I cradled her infant form to sleep, can remember baptizing her, remember telling her the plot of Hamlet when she was five, watching her read all of Dickens (why Dickens?), hearing her call out “help me, Mama!” during a brutal depression, seeing the cut marks on her teenaged wrists.

Aerial View of the Rockies

The gods like to trace their fingers in the world;
like leaves from a primordial tree, landforms
bare their veins. Clever of her to suicide this way
leaving no one but me to know. Impassive as
the dead face she wanted no one to see, clouds
hide rigor in the lines, purposeful or not, below.
In winter, sunrise looks like sunset in this distant
land, soon to be nearer, nearer, soon.

    Near the end of her life, my mother, given to bursts of anger, carefully prepared and delivered a measured speech to me and my sister, to each of us separately. She quietly and sincerely stated that if she had it to do over, she would not have had children. It was important to her that her daughters know this. I thought for a moment that perhaps she was consoling me for my childlessness, but that would have been another woman, not my Mama.
    I have no nuclear family now – Mama, Papa, my sister Tamara, and my niece and godchild Irene are dead. I quickly sold the family home last year, but am haunted by it in my dreams. And I have no fitness, no genetic material except my cousins’ daughters, bright, pretty, too distant for me to care. I have buried everyone, and have no one to bury me; I counted on Irene for that, and she would have done me proud. But I suppose when the time comes, I won’t be in the condition to mind.

Larissa Shmailo's latest novel is Sly Bang.

My Writing Day - Entry at rob meclannan's Blog

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https://mysmallpresswritingday.blogspot.com/2019/11/larissa-shmailos-writing-day.html

Larissa Shmailo’s Writing Day:5:00 am: I love it when I wake up early in the morning; this time seems more mine than any other. I weigh myself—the scale hasn’t moved but I am patient. I am obese, but less so by some 30 pounds now, and every day is a new adventure. This week I broke out of my couch-to -computer life to walk in the park and along Broadway for several miles. I am abstaining from my binge foods, sugar and flour, and every day I bend and turn my big body in joyful remembrance of motion. I am coming out of food fog and experiencing the pink cloud of addictive withdrawal.Next, I do what I have always done – check my analytics. Did someone look at my blog? My Wikipedia page? My Facebook? My Twitter? Did something pending get published? Like Roland Barthes, who once wrote to me (yes, truly) J'écris pour être aimé de loin, I also write to be loved from afar, and to be read. 5:30, thereabouts:  I meditate on positive affirmations as I have done for years. Mixed in there are my literary ambitions—I visualize reading at the 92nd Street Y, of being published in The Paris Review.  I also remember David Foster Wallace who had every award and pub I could ever covet and who killed himself, and I affirm for less glittering but more durable qualities like gratitude, joy, humility, and love. 7:00 am: My poetry partner likes my new poem, “Over 35.” It is an interleaving of Shakespeare’s Sonnet XXXV with answering lines about infidelity. This is a gut poem; it proceeded from an ache in my body that could not be denied. Lying on the couch, I asked, “Can I write this later?” No, my gut replied, now. I decide I will send it to Poetry;  I have received my last rejection and it is time again. I bundle my Submittable, write my cover letter with my too-long bio, and send. It is done; I can forget about it for another six months.9:00 am: What has Trump done now? I watch the news addictively. A child of parents persecuted by Stalin and interned in concentration camps by Hitler, I see the rise of fascism in the United States, of shameless, Goebbels-style propaganda – make the lie big, keep it simple enough for your stupidest follower, repeat it often, get others to repeat it. Sinclair has eaten Tribune and tells people on local news between the sports and the weather that Obama was funded by Hamas . . . this is the time writers earn their keep, as Toni Morrison said, these are the times we go to work.11:00 am: My side hustle – I am a freelancer, write, ghost, do social media, edit, whatever I can to support my literary jones.  For the past year, I have gotten work as a terminologist, a creative namer for advertising—I come up with names like Xarelto and Aviator for products, organizations, and services. This is one corporate gig where being a poet is not cause to be thrown out of the interviewer’s office—creativity with language is prized and paid astonishingly well. Today, I name a banking data platform; they want names that connote reliability, innovation, flexibility, data science. I knock out 100 names according to their parameters, real words lightly coined, and feel gratitude for the easy money.3:00 pm: My current project is a screenplay adaptation of my autobiographical hard-knocks novel, Patient Women. I am becoming acutely aware that I know very little about this genre, but for now, am trying to get the recovery from alcoholism, bipolar disorder, sex addiction and second-generation Holocaust survival all into 110 loosely packed pages in something that resembles the conventional format of a writing discipline that values conventional structures. To my surprise, I am succeeding and have gotten the war story all in with plenty of room for the recovery, although several chapters, characters, and subplots have had to be jettisoned or conflated. I am halfway through the roughest of rough drafts, and know I will have to go back to set up each shot visually, not verbally, and to edit mercilessly. How the hell am I going to sell this? I haven’t the foggiest; I am banking on, if I write it, the agent will come.Evening. I didn’t procrastinate or binge today, a good day. More news, friends, sleep at a decent hour. Something to do, to look forward to; work and love, Freud said. It is a good life and I, woman of a thousand diagnoses, do not take a second of it for granted.Bio: Larissa Shmailo is a poet, novelist, translator, editor, curator, and critic. Her new novel is Sly Bang; her first novel is Patient Women. Her poetry collections are Medusa’s Country, #specialcharacters, In Paran, A Cure for Suicide, and Fib Sequence. Her poetry albums are The No-Net World and Exorcism,for which she won the New Century Best Spoken Word Album award. Shmailo is the original English-language translator of the first Futurist opera Victory Over the Sun by Alexei Kruchenych, performed at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the Garage Museum of Moscow, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and theaters and universities worldwide. Shmailo also edited the online anthologies Twenty-first Century Russian Poetry and From Pushkin to Pussy Riot: Russian Political Poetry and Prose. Her work is included in the libraries of Harvard, Stanford, Yale, Princeton, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Smithsonian. Please see more about Shmailo at www.larissashmailo.com



UKRAINE

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As a Ukrainian American, my heart bleeds for the country of my parents' origin, caught for centuries between powerful nations greedy for its resources as it fights for its autonomy and freedom. Since the time of the kholodomor, the mass starvation of the thirties caused by Stalin's collectivization of Ukraine's rich farmland, Russia has annexed or sought to annex its neighbor, causing dubious alliances and foreign-bred corruption. Хай живе Україна, long live a Ukraine, neither Trump nor Russia-facing, but of self-determination and democracy.

AWP SAN ANTONIO EVENTS

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The AWP 2020 event schedule is out! Please include our panels in your planning. See you in San Antonio!Event Title: Translating the Untranslatable: A Reading of International Experimental Poetry with Helene CardonaJennifer Kwon Dobbs, Michele Gil-Montero, and Marc Vincenz, moderated by Larissa Shmailo
Scheduled Day: Thursday, 3/5/20
Scheduled Time: 09:00:AM–10:15:AM
Scheduled Room: Room 211, Henry B. González Convention Center, Meeting Room LevelEvent Title: What Kind of Times Are These? Immigrant Poets and the New Politics of Resistance with Valzhyna MortAnna HalberstadtLarissa Shmailo, and Mariya Deykute, moderated by Olga Livshin.
Scheduled Day: Thursday, 3/5/20
Scheduled Time: 03:20:PM–04:35:PM
Scheduled Room: Room 214B, Henry B. González Convention Center, Meeting Room Level

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