Michael G. Donkin

 Read here: http://bangalorereview.com/2020/08/creation-myth/   CREATION MYTH When they buried me they put all my statues In the very ditch in which I was to be put. Next they put in my estate, Then my eagles, followed by my horses. Then my telephone, my raiment, and my whips, Then my sons and my nephews. Next they put the soldiers in that ditch, too. They put my dogs, then my telescope, my bicycle, And my favorite eating chair, My cushion, my geographers, my cousins, My skulls, my best singers. . . They lowered in my favorite books of verse, My bathtub, my livestock, my precious stones. They lowered in my arms and my legs And folded me in thirds. They lowered in my chamber, My fortress, my helicopter, My bees, my armies, my scents, my rakes. They gently put in my stomach, my genitals, And all the beauty of this realm And the realm itself. And then the cosmos and the forms And the gods and all of time And all the love That was meant for me and me alone. From here it would start anew.

The Brooklyn Rail published Catullus translations I did of eleven poems. Read here: https://intranslation.brooklynrail.org/latin/eleven-poems-of-catullus/

I reviewed I Am a Phenomenon Quite Out of the Ordinary: The Notebooks, Diaries and Letters of Daniil Kharms for issue 59:04/60:01 of Chicago Review read the review here .

My review of Tom McCarthy's Satin Island in The Lifted Brow . https://www.theliftedbrow.com/liftedbrow/tom-mccarthy-the-disinterested-novelist

“In Cuba”   [originally appeared in  Chicago Review issue 56: 2/3 - Autumn 2011] He went back to a bed Even more terrible than the loyal eyes Of a dog about to be euthanized.  –Frederick Seidel My wife has died in the hotel. Her body was unable to support the massive thread count. The men came in, investigated and went out. She was always particular about thread counts. She took it up with the concierge. Meanwhile, I would study the shape of all the poor people’s skulls. All I can remember now is the fact that she died. We went to Cuba, to the hotel, where I am now. After the men came in, I asked, Why was I not killed? The men walked out. I went to the veranda, where I watched a bevy of odd sparrows alight. The sparrows were stone-washed denim, perfectly matching the sky. The city shone in the hazy light. The air smelled of the water supply, and the land and the hills. The maid came in. I did not know what she would do with my deceased wife. Was she sleeping? she asked.

This week, my text "In Cuba" made its debut in the Autumn 2011 issue of  Chicago Review .