Contributors

Charles Bernstein

Contributor History

Three Poems, Conjunctions:5
Five Poems, Conjunctions:11
Common Stock, Conjunctions:14
Virtual Reality, Conjunctions:15
State of the Art, Conjunctions:17
Travail Vertical et Blanc and Work Vertical and Blank, Conjunctions:23
Reading Red, Conjunctions:35
A Dialogue, Conjunctions:35
The Meandering Yangtze (Rivers and Mountains, 1966), Conjunctions:49
Three Poems, Conjunctions:50
Recalculating, Conjunctions:56
Elfking Suite, Conjunctions:60 (mp3, 00:17:44)
Elfking Suite, Conjunctions:60
Four Poems, Conjunctions:75

Biography

Charles Bernstein’s new collection of poems, Topsy-Turvy, is out in spring 2021 (University of Chicago Press). Bernstein is the 2019 recipient of the Bollingen Prize for lifetime achievement in poetry and for Near/Miss (University of Chicago Press) and is the author of a collection of poems entitled Recalculating, (University of Chicago Press), as well as Attack of the Difficult Poems: Essays & Inventions (University of Chicago Press). Bernstein is a Regan Professor of English and Comparative Literature at the University of Pennsylvania.

Connect

In Print

Conjunctions:75

Dispatches from Solitude

Fall 2020
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

All Cities Burn

by Katharine Coldiron

November 25, 2020

The smell was profound, suffocating, singular. My skin and clothes stank until I washed them; I had to stop at a gas station and wet my shoes under a faucet and scrub them with disintegrating Kleenex because the smell hung so potently in my car. It was dead fish and bird droppings and the bottom edge of a body of water, brought to the light and baked too hot. I once visited a blooming corpse flower at the Huntington and it smelled alive, at least. This was death of a hundred kinds braided together.

Three Poems

by Elizabeth Robinson

November 18, 2020

Where there is no fact, there can be no consolation.

We chose to be plural in the presumed grace of what

is presumed to be moving in the dark.

Nuntle Shtuli

by C. P. Boyko

November 11, 2020

You, Shtuli, went to a school and sang a few songs.
            The children, with skybright eyes, listened rapt, their mouths hanging moistly open.

Strumming my balalaika, I, Shtuli, sang.

Shtuli, you asked Asfalyi, your child, to come to a noisejazz concert with you.
            “I’d rather stay home and read my grimoire tonight, to be honest, Boombi,” Asfalyi said.
            “That’s all right,” you gloomily said. “I’ll go by myself.”