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Country issue no. 1 of 100

T. R . H u m m e r Noam Chomsky Caoilinn Hughes Jeannie Vanasco Lily Blacksell Sasha Smith No. 1 Winter 2017 $10/£8

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Managing Editor
 Sam O’Hana

Poetry Editor
 George Kovalenko

Prose Editor
 Taylor Lannamann

Associate Editor Alexandra Franklin

 Jeffrey Schultz

In response to the catastrophic disregard for human life executed by nation-states, Poet’s Country is assembled to propose potential landscapes of humane existence. It understands humanity as part of an ecology, and in the service of providing personal and communal dwelling spaces, reclaims from abuse the concept of a “country.” We offer the content assembled herein as evidence of: ethical and intellectual rigor, regardless of aesthetic tradition; acts of courage resulting from an intuitive art practice regardless of commercial aim; lyric, narrative, and philosophical projects balancing compassion with critique and arising as much from play as from strategy of design. 2

T .

R .


Halo Gazehound Centipede Vulture

4 5 6 7



Not Waving




An Interview




Precedent First-Person


11 12


Going Home


S A S H A slave catchers.


S M I T H 14

T. R. Hummer

Halo It’s a first world problem I know, but today I woke up with a country western song Stuck in my head—not even a real one, a song I wrote in my sleep, and not even a whole one, But just the chorus, which goes round and round in Merle Haggard’s voice. Don’t get me wrong— I like Merle Haggard. But this sliver of music is driving me bat-shit crazy, it makes me want To crawl through my own ear into my brain and find whatever sleazy bar these two songwriters Are still hanging out in—I know in the marrow of my synapses there’s a pair of them; they’re swilling Coors Lite and congratulating each other—and beat them songless with the neck of a 1932 Martin parlor guitar That just happens to be lying there (my head is full of them). What were they thinking? I know you can get away With a thousand clichés in any kind of music, but did they have to write Some people are born to be golden/ Some people are just born to fail? Why do I get this and not at least a jazz riff, or, better, a full requiem? I forgave Merle Haggard years ago for “Okie from Muskogee.” In the ’60s I hated that, and him, but now I know him better. Forgiveness of all kinds is still possible. Maybe I’ll help these guys up, maybe I’ll buy them a decent beer And just beg them to revise. Maybe I’ll walk out of the bar onto the boulevard of my amygdala, where young people In love are actually sauntering. It looks like Paris here, or heaven, there ought to be a winged accordionist in a beret playing Piaf, I should live in a place like this, and I would, but this song won’t stop: If I grew a halo like an angel/They’d run me out of town on a rail.


Gazehound Resting on a park bench, I saw Plato Walking—he was a borzoi on a glittering leash— Across the footbridge toward the exit. My first thought was Where on earth Did they get that dog? It had been four decades since I last saw a borzoi. That was in frozen Montreal. I was young, of course, dreaming of lovers of course, whose names I could not imagine In the narrow suburbs of my medulla oblongata. Just then someone shouted Plato! at the dog, And I was thinking how clever to call a dog that, when the owner shrieked Ne pas chier Sur le trottoir! and yanked hard on the chain. Not a borzoi, a gazehound, canis agasæus, Adored by the ancient Greeks and had at great price. But these were French-shrieking lovers and the dog was theirs, The woman held the chain in her hand, she was staring down a tunnel of light at a man slumped on a park bench smelling Smoke, the stream beneath the footbridge engulfed in flame, and the bridge too, everything was burning, sulfurous fumes Of recall rolling toward him over the grass in the shape of a man walking in flames, calmly adjusting his toga, And from the other side of oblivion a chained animal howling. The great thing is not to care too much about one’s own mind. How pure can memory be? The borzoi wasn’t Plato, it was Heraclitus, such a different philosopher, such an awkward name To shout in the snow while yanking on an ambiguous lead.



Centipede He is enormous and immediately repulsive, sailing down the wainscoting. I think of him As he though I cannot verify the gender, knowing nothing of the intimate habits of arthropods. I place A drinking glass over him tenderly. Magnified by the clear curve of the vessel, he reveals Nothing at all except otherness, so in order to release him into the flower garden by the porch, I must decide He is a ship, an oared Roman galley, bearing saron for mindless patricians, propelled by slaves of the Empire, And I am an admiral of Carthage. That done, we sign a treaty and he scuds away over tides Of hostas, into the distant uncharted zone of banked gerbera daisies, revolting as I was when I set out On Charon’s boat, voyaging upward from the land of the dead, threading my course from petal to portal, from sill to joist to jamb.


Vulture I can still see the imperious vulture etched on the back wall of my mind’s cave Where he came to be when I saw him exit the belly of a dead cow collapsed Like a suburb of ancient Troy in the shade of a black cedar. He came forth, a shining priest, From the temple of the dead, settling his wings around him—sacramental robes, I might Have thought if I had not been myself ignorant as the swarm of vestal flies Attending him, lighting on his raiment to lick him clean. He had worshipped Under the white dome of the cow’s ribcage, he had prayed as he had learned to pray: All-devouringly, indifferent to the ants and carrion beetles swarming at his feet, Exulting in the incense of his sacrifice. I was a child, indifferent to the ways The dead deal with the dead until he turned his hieratic head and regarded me, Considering my bitter self-taste at his leisure before he flexed and rose and drove himself Through my eyes’ barrier to become indelible in the heretofore godless arc of my interior sky.


Caoilinn Hughes Not Waving not for the first time rumours radiate of waves in the universe. you and i weigh on the lip of our couch. thigh to jittery thigh. the pathetic span of us. butter perfume popcorn efflorescing in the kitchen. watch this play out: this interference. is it a star and star colliding? i’ve been reading. einstein predicted it a century ago today though he said we’d never hear it. did he mean it would just be there unhearable like damascus bagdad mỹ lai pompeii domestic violence surging after soccer games? the neighbour’s not-so-silent-vacuum screams into good intention stifles what consolation had been your order: “don’t flick channels. news isn’t fodder to be grazed on.” i reason: you must’ve swabbed the television for dust earlier? did you love? there’s a diagonal divergence between what you pick up if it’s real

and what i’m saying: this

—swell—might we find say by autumn the very beginning? time’s opening credit? if you grasp the question. i only ask because it’s hard to know what we chance upon from what we occasion. also: how come such a weak signal would move me more than the plumage of that captured goldfinch? well that print of a painting of a goldfinch shot through with aureolin pigment shooting star-like. how is that alone not astounding? albeit such radiance is far-fetched. if it’s true—if they do tune into signals from distant galaxies— oughtn’t we drop everything? your pebbledash flesh in my fist. this domiciliary contraception. the unposed question. primordial gravitational waves sound everso historic. echoing the great accident. (the radiator gargles on the change of season as on soluble anesthetic.) just one more thing: is there a boom-bust cycle when it comes to cosmic inflation— collapses faster than we can imagine? (a draft chills like a sprinkler if we were splayed on a lawn stargazing but the sky behind the curtain mesh is a hundred denier and plasma screens don’t snow on any station—some news always to see to know to believe to find shapes in) your answer is hardly a suasion: “to be heard down here the ripple would have begun as a tsunami. is this what you’re awaiting? a cataclysm. despite all we’ve withstood? close all those tabs broadcasting the mayhems of this planet. the dozen tragedies a minute. don’t set bulletins as background music. don’t add the heavens too. don’t wait up for me whatever you do don’t add the universe.”


“The Responsibility of Intellectuals”: Fifty Years On An Interview with Noam Chomsky Noam Chomsky’s office is not particularly large. There are several wheeled tables covered by five-foot stacks of books, a poster of Bertrand Russell on one wall, sweeping views of Boston Harbor on two others. Last October, after meeting first with Bev Stohl, who assists him, we spoke about his work and support for the National Labor Relations Board’s recent ruling in favor of student workers in higher education. Prof. Chomsky’s schedule on this particular Tuesday was, as usual, chaotic, so with limited time I began asking him about his essay “The Responsibility of Intellectuals,” now 50 years old.

was a mistake; you can’t find people who will say in print that it was a major crime. Take the New York Review of Books, where “The Responsibility of Intellectuals” appeared in ’67. Kenneth Roth, the head of Human Rights Watch, had an article there recently in which he referred to the invasion as a “blunder.” Now, that’s like Nazi generals after Stalingrad. And that’s the New York Review, which is considered radical and so on. Try to find it anywhere—it’s obvious that the invasion was a textbook example of aggression. But even Sir John Chilcot’s report, “The Iraq Inquiry,” couldn’t say it.

—Sam O’Hana We waited so long for that report to come out. Do you think intellectuals have become more willing than in the mid-’60s to expose lying in politics, and do you think attitudes have changed toward speaking out since then? To a certain extent, but only as a reflection of the fact that the whole society is, in many respects, more civilized than it was then. “The Responsibility of Intellectuals” was written before the women’s movement had started and before the anti-war movement had really taken off. It actually appeared in a Harvard undergraduate journal in 1966, and at that time we literally couldn’t have a public demonstration in Boston against the war because we’d be broken up. By students. Seriously. People forget those days. It was a year or two later—in ’67 and then through ’71—that things started to change. The militant, visible anti-war movement had begun but was a very brief phenomenon, the feminist movement was barely beginning, and the environmental movement didn’t even exist yet. A lot of things that are part of our legacy just weren’t around at that time. There is a kind of false belief that there was a period in journalism when you had militant, courageous journalists, etc. It’s probably a little better now than it was then, and as a result there’s somewhat more openness. A lot of people in the academy come out of that ferment and were affected by it roughly fifty years ago. However, it’s still a very marginal phenomenon. Take, for example, the worst crime of this century: the invasion of Iraq. Now, you can find people who will say it

It’s good that it came out, but it’s interesting what it skirted. Do you think the urgency and severity of political issues has any effect on the willingness of intellectuals to speak out? Is it increasingly becoming their responsibility to analyze the genuine importance of issues since others aren’t taking up the task? First of all, the term intellectual is a weird category, one that didn’t exist in the modern sense until the late 19th century. The Dreyfus Affair is more or less the first case in which the term was used in the modern sense. They were just educated people. But what is an intellectual? The concept is very strange. Suppose you go down the hall and there’s a Nobel Prize-winning physicist who spends seventy hours a week in his laboratory. We don’t call him an intellectual. He’s a great physicist, but not an intellectual. Now, take the janitor who cleans his floor, who never went to college. Suppose he happens to have a lot of insight into and understanding about human life, social relations, the political system, and so on— he’s not called an intellectual. The people who are called intellectuals are those who use their privilege to speak out about issues of public concern. They’re called intellectuals. It’s a very strange category. They may not know what they’re talking about, but that doesn’t matter—they’re intellectuals! If you trace the history of the people who have been called intellectuals, there’s a pattern you’ll find. It dates way back to classical Greece and the Bible. The people who 9

spoke out independently and critically, wherever they were from, were treated badly in various ways. In Greece it was the guy corrupting the youth of Athens, and he had to drink hemlock. In the Bible it was the prophets, and they were jailed and driven into the desert. There were others who were highly respected and honored: they were the flatterers of the court, and that’s never changed. Go back to the Dreyfus Affair. Today you honor the Dreyfusards, but not at the time. Émile Zola had to flee France and go to England because of “J’accuse…!”, the open letter he wrote defending Dreyfus and revealing president Félix Faure’s elite anti-Semitism. The Dreyfusards were bitterly condemned by the prestigious figures of that period. The immortals of the Académie française vehemently denounced them: “How dare you talk about these great men!” This sort of thing runs right through history with barely a break, and it’s still true today. Do you think it’s a necessary precondition of intellectuals that they are removed from positions of power? Most of them are right at the core of power. They’re the administrators. They’re the Henry Kissingers. That’s the intellectual class, overwhelmingly. There’s a fringe of dissidents who by now in the United States and England are not sent to prisons, not tortured, not murdered, but marginalized in various ways—denigrated, denounced, and so on. But that’s a historical pattern with virtually no exceptions. Try to find one. Why is it that individuals like Henry Kissinger and Tony Blair are not subject to even the most rudimentary legal procedures that might apply to them? Well, Kissinger himself put it pretty well. He said something about how the responsible intellectuals are those who know how to articulate the interests and concerns of those in power. Which is pretty accurate. On the other hand, if you undermine systems of power with critical analysis, they’re not going to like it. It doesn’t matter whether you’re in a faculty department or talking about affairs of state, of course they won’t like it.

In “The Responsibility of Intellectuals” you talk about the relationship between “scholar-experts” and “free-floating intellectuals.” I remember a British politician who said, as part of the campaign for the UK to leave the EU, “I think people in this country have had enough of experts.” Do you think we need a finer distinction between these experts who are providing justified, evidence-based criticism and those who aren’t? I remember that comment, but my recollection is that it was just anti-intellectualism, saying “We don’t need you smart guys, we just do it by instinct and we do the right thing.” Doing the right thing—like becoming a Stormtrooper. It’s not that you don’t need knowledge and understanding, it’s that you don’t need a specialized class who arrogate to themselves the right to monopolize and claim understanding and knowledge. The ones who call themselves the technocratic and policy-oriented elite—basically the central committee in a communist state— that’s the group we don’t need. But it doesn’t follow that you don’t need to understand and interpret and critically analyze. That kind of expertise you should need, but it’s anybody’s legacy, not just the people who happen to make it to power (who do so for Kissinger’s reasons, typically). The same is true not just in positions of political power, but also in the general intellectual world. Though of course there are exceptions, especially in freer societies. On the subject of power and exposure, Judith Butler received criticism from the State of Israel when she won the Adorno Prize in 2012, and Thomas Piketty, just after the release of Capital in the 21st Century, refused the French Légion d’honneur, saying, “I do not think it’s the government’s role to decide who is honorable.” How should intellectuals navigate this issue of prestige and exposure? Do you think Piketty’s decision was an important one to make? It never meant much to me. What matters is what you do, not who decides to honor you. I wouldn’t decide to accept an honor from a totalitarian state, let’s say. But suppose someone accepts an honor from the British government; they do a lot of rotten things, but it doesn’t seem to me a major issue. The question is: what’s the nature of the honor, who’s bestowing it, and what are you doing for it? It’s what you do, not who decides to say something nice about you. It’s ironic that the Israeli government criticized Butler for being anti-Semitic. Every educated Israeli knows because they’ve studied the Bible that the first use of the concept of the hater of Israel is from King Ahab, who called the prophet Elijah

to him and condemned him for critical discussion of the evil king. He said, Why are you a hater of Israel? That’s the origins of the concept of the self-hating Jew. There’s a pre-existing or inherent enmity, then, between critics and kings? I think it’s the same structure. The concept that you’re a hater of Israel if you condemn the acts of the king is a deeply totalitarian concept that associates a political power with the society, the culture, the civilization. It’s embodied in the center of power, so if you criticize that center of power, you hate the whole society, which is a typical totalitarian concept. It’s quite striking that it is exists in Israel. And in the United States, too, with the concept of anti-Americanism. You don’t find that in most societies, you find it in totalitarian states. In the old Soviet Union, critical intellectuals were called anti-Soviet. Deep totalitarian concepts go straight back to the Bible and it’s quite astonishing when you find them in free societies. Those kinds of all-encompassing attitudes are so prevalent that to call them totalitarian would seem a radical stance to take. I think it’s a pretty obvious stance. Totalitarian means you identify the society, the people, the culture with the controlling power system. So if you criticize the king, you’re anti-Israeli; if you criticize the Kremlin, you’re anti-Russian; criticize the White House, you’re anti-American. Many intellectuals—particularly researchers and specialists—might claim they don’t know enough about one particular geopolitical crisis to publicly comment on political affairs in general. Is being an intellectual in this respect a hindrance? Should each intellectual take on more than what she specializes in? Let’s take the biggest problem that humans face—climate change. It’s true that, say, a historian may not look into the question of why 400 parts per million of atmospheric carbon dioxide is a crisis point in the destruction of the environment. For that, they will turn to experts. But you don’t have to be a specialist to understand that this is maybe the most serious problem in the entire history of the human species. You just have to be a literate person. And it’s the literate, intelligent people who don’t have to have any particular specialty. It could be the janitor cleaning the floor. They’re ones who have to make a decision about the crisis, and they’re perfectly capable of doing so, turning to specialists to ask whether the critical turning point is 400 or 450 parts per 10

million. You need a specialist for that knowledge, but not to understand the nature of what’s happening. It’s the same with every other issue. You don’t have to be a specialist in East European history to know that if NATO is building up military forces on the Russian border, it’s going to be a threat to Russia. You don’t have to be a genius to figure that out. What do you think about this disconnect between the warnings of specialists—who are clearly pointing to emerging crises as well as to solutions—and the level of existing political will? Why don’t decisionmakers listen to scientists with the openmindedness that would be necessary to save human lives? Take, say, another critical issue, not of the scale of climate change, but significant nonetheless— healthcare. That’s important to people. The US healthcare system is an international scandal. It has twice the percapita costs of other societies, and some of the worst outcomes. The reason is that it’s privatized. A majority of the population has wanted a public healthcare system for decades—has anybody paid attention? That’s not the way political democracy works. It does not reflect public opinion. And regarding the other issue—global warming—remember that a huge number of people, for various reasons, do not understand the problem. It has not been presented to them in a way they can understand. The United States has a special problem. This is a deeply fundamentalist society, maybe the most extreme in the world, and almost half the population thinks global warming can’t be a problem because Jesus is returning in twenty or thirty years. These are problems of education and understanding. You look at the media presentation of the issues and it’s a kind of “he says, she says” sort of thing. So what are people supposed to do? How do they decide? They give the answer that one of the others gives. Because they think they don’t know enough.

Jeannie Vanasco 

Precedent Shaped like a canon shell, the dictator’s head gleams in the dim, tin-roofed church among his dim,
 tin-eared followers. This nation of makers and takers, the dictator begins... He stuffs these wooden-framed arguments into their ears, and his followers reframe them in 
 different types of wood. He shoots from the hip, they say.

He wears camouflage that reflects our camouflage, they say.

He uproots their fear of others and waters the parched land it grows from. 

Their white skulls will gleam through his grass.


First-Person The prisoners lie on shadows of telephone poles as if crucified to the ground while weeds come up
 for air. Here there is a new language: breaths are conjunctions and soldiers are jargon—their eyes, at least—
 and the first-person demands a double-negative. One almost wants to forgive the soldiers, a prisoner whispers to another prisoner in the shadows of
 communication. Today, the second prisoner replies, their handwashed uniforms— Gunshots and screams. The prisoners hush. Hanging empty-handed from clotheslines, the soldiers’ uniforms look beautiful and innocent.


Lily Blacksell

Going Home There’s a sound, about as happy as a howl gets,
 and an aging hound appears on the skyline— although perhaps she’s aged, not aging. She won’t be going much further, but look how far she’s come. Here by the grace of the wild garlic scent on the wooded back road from Carisbrooke. The far off music of a horn or a siren held in her teapot head. Ears in shreds (will not heal, will not heal). Imagine a flayed silk purse from a sow’s ear, a palm-sized pouch from a bitch’s. She’s following a feeling only she knows. She’d be wagging her tail if she had one.


Sasha Smith

slave catchers. this is why you must run from the slave catchers, boy. brother, look at their lot: chain shackle rope [clipped on skin snagged on scabs] meet where blood is rust, where blood is chipped flakes, is burgundy mercury, is embossed prints of smears. of streaks.

at either sides, the chase is here. is of a mind of current violence, of previous torment / a slanted groove ironed out of misery, no—contempt, no—self loathing, no— a system installed into the senses. who is running like weak, bright eyed doe, like wolf wet with blood, like hounds and their digging knives, like horses, like men on their horses, like beasts in the men on their horses? and whose noose? and of that, whose rope built that noose? who twisted fine threads, tender sinews into the wrapping thing? and of the chains, why loose? why loud? why a rustling aftermath, an effect of brokeness, why a reminder, the dead ask, why was one needed? for us. the shackles or then the shackles of ore / or the metal bolts, chains of cluttered clunks—are embedded all embedded into wrists, each imprinted, each are handcuffs cuffing hands, wrists until flesh twists, peels, is repealed. why this? the hunted realize the hunt is beasts in bodies on beasts: calling bodies beasts. the rabbits are jumping—hopping! look, spotted, white tailed, look! the deer are leaping, sprinting, look, skipping, and we, no. he. his feet, the soles of his feet, look how red and raw they are, look how like meat they are: soft and smell spoiled. boy, run. if turned a fugitive, then run. then never stop. let the dirt cover blisters, let it cover the poked, plucked pools of dead skin pinched over. if a runaway, then do not hesitate not at forests, not at rivers, not at ponds. cool the feet there but walk anyway, then swim anyway, then dive anyway, then drown anyway. if the slave catchers, if the slave patrol catches you, you must hold your breath and choke anyway



choke on the taste of the air of forts, of castles you were chained to. choke on the smell of slave ships, of the salty water freshly springing splashing up. up. up. throwing up. choke choke on the mud pits, cement prison, then choke on the busy sounds of slave quarters, humming, chattering, choke on cesspools of others and you, an other, and another you, and others unlike you, looped in, clumped into the whole of the continent Africa, choke on the sounds of the quarters that turn to freed neighborhoods, that turn to shanty towns, to urban blocks, that turn to slums, that turn to ghettos, that turn to mine fields of minds fielding patrols, choke choke on the taste of lead, choke choke choke on the sifting shift of asbestos knocked clean, knocked straight, cut from uncared-for walls. choke choke on the burden of what is no longer a plantation field but society. run or choke. run or choke. run or choke. run and choke.


Lily Blacksell is a British writer currently based in New York, where she’s working toward a poetry MFA in Columbia University’s Writing Program. Her work has appeared in Impakter, Rockland Lit, Foothill, and Magma Poetry. She has written reviews and interviews for Boston Review, Sabotage, and Prac Crit. In 2016, Lily was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Noam Chomsky is Institute Professor (Emeritus) in the MIT Department of Linguistics and Philosophy. His work is widely credited with having revolutionized the field of modern linguistics. Chomsky is the author of numerous best-selling political works, including the New York Times bestseller Hegemony or Survival, Failed States, Imperial Ambitions, What We Say Goes, and Hopes and Prospects. Caoilinn Hughes is an Irish writer whose poetry collection, Gathering Evidence (Carcanet Press 2014), won the Irish Times Shine/Strong Award 2015 and the Patrick Kavanagh Award, and was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Prize for Best First Collection 2015, the 2014 NZ Post Book Award for Poetry, the Royal Society of NZ Science Book Prize 2014 and the Pigott Poetry Prize 2015. Her debut novel, Orchid & the Wasp, will be published by Hogarth in Spring 2018. She is Visiting Writer at Maastricht University in the Netherlands. T. R. Hummer is the author of twelve books of poetry, including Skandalon and Ephemeron. Sasha Smith is a Poetry Project 2016-2017 Emerge-Surface-Be Fellow. She is currently studying literature at NYU’s School of Professional Studies. She is a native Bronx resident and cofounder of the Bronx Blaqlist, a community arts organization. Prior to publication in NYU’s literary journal, Dovetail, her work was published by CUNY’s literary and arts journal, Thesis. Jeannie Vanasco is the author of The Glass Eye, a memoir (Tin House Books, 2017). Her writing has appeared in The Believer, Little Star Journal, Longform, Longreads,, and elsewhere. She lives in Baltimore and is an assistant professor of English at Towson University. She also teaches in the MA Writing Program at Johns Hopkins University.

Special Thanks Mark & Elizabeth Franklin, Matthew Fraser, Gisele Lannamann, Andrew McIntyre, Dino Nicandros, Jordan Straubel, Pauls Toutonghi, Trochee Trochee, Patti White, and John Willard. Thanks also to Sheila McNamee, Kate Ireland, Ella Nimmo, John Nimmo, Chloe Lyon, Jess Irish, Indigo Island, Sebastien Bernard, Art Emme, Maya Zachariassen, Bob Holman, Shelly Stratton, Mary Gergen, Lucy Gibson, Kirsten Chen, Nicholas Fuenzalida, Gary Scoggin, Tristan O’Hana, Elaine Savory, Jim Grainger, Sarah O’Hana, Nick Chad, Ford Franklin, Patti White, Karen Gross, Julia Jacovides, Irene O’Garden, Anne Marie Bullock, Abigail Frankfurt, Alaina J. Ferris, Killian Dorier, Benjamin Scott Keoseyan, Cordia Leung, Jamie Wilkinson, Anthony Hall, Nathaniel Ralstin, Mickie Meinhardt, Brock Dethier, Brian Wilson, and Anetxy Barnes. Poet’s Country is a post-national, variating-format journal of lyric, narrative, and philosophical writing slated to span a limited run from 2017 to 2067. The project consists of 100 biannual physical issues, a post hoc digital archive of each new installment, and a retrospective exhibition of the journal at its completion in 2067. Guided by the Constitution of Poet’s Country, the editors are independent seekers of material that meets their standards in relation to this project.

A project of:

Poet's Country No. 1  

New poetry by T.R. Hummer, Jeannie Vanasco, Caoilinn Hughes, Sasha Smith, and Lily Blacksell. An interview with Noam Chomsky.

Poet's Country No. 1  

New poetry by T.R. Hummer, Jeannie Vanasco, Caoilinn Hughes, Sasha Smith, and Lily Blacksell. An interview with Noam Chomsky.