CONTRIBUTORS

Corey Wakeling

Writer, translator, and scholar Corey Wakeling has lived in Japan since 2015. He is the author of four collections, the most recent, Uncle of Cats, being published by Cordite Books in 2025. A fifth collection, Endless Fields: Ploughing for Clothes, is forthcoming with Shearsman in late 2026. He is an associate professor of English at Aoyama Gakuin University, Tokyo. Corey received a PhD in English from the University of Melbourne in 2013, and is the author of monograph Beckett’s Laboratory (Bloomsbury, 2021), co-editor of anthology Outcrop (Black Rider Press, 2013), and writer of numerous essays on modern and contemporary literature and performance. His translations of contemporary Japanese writers have featured in leading journals such as Fence, Asymptote, Second Factory, and Another Chicago Magazine, galleries such as Mori Gallery (Tokyo) and a83 (Manhattan), and theatres such as the Honda Theatre (Shimokitazawa).

Corey Wakeling Reviews John Tranter

John Tranter has been publishing poetry for forty years, and his latest book is published in tandem with a critical companion to his oeuvre, The Salt Companion to John Tranter. As Rod Mengham writes in the companion’s preface, Tranter is “widely regarded by critics as the most important member of the so-called ‘generation of ‘68’”. This generation of poets was in fact named as such by Tranter himself.

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John Malley: Catastrophe Willing

You, tall Kosciusko, Smooth as buttocks, I trade Blows with your arsenal. Kosciusko, better than Patterson, Your pockets weigh the world Down with silver dollars. The Americas are broad, Stupid. When is the next operatic Catastrophe? I do not want …

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John Malley: Soil of Brie

crossroad shit-hound bound to concupiscent literalness boundary-barker, holing up in a shift-shop gears, open for years selling antique British motorcycle parts on the highway abides the devil, on a freeway, on a bench running motors to exhaustion fumes blackening throats …

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Beneath "Saw"

after Bella Li’s ‘You Saw Me First Isabella’   You, beneath “saw”. Your “me”, window-first. Tongue Isabella stilled passing dagger; for at indifference my “I” throat smiled you in. Mistook spite. My “of silence”. Myself.   The ewe wind alone …

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