We are so excited to once again offer our curated gifts for serious writers. Through next Friday (December 19th), the Massachusetts Review’s annual online auction is live, with opportunities to work with our editors one-on-one; a chance to attend an online writing workshop from Provincetown’s Fine Arts Work Center; and a spectacular . . .
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Not just one death,one victim tells another:they killed me by the roadside. —from Ibrahim Fawzy’s translation of Maya Abu Al-Hayyat’s “Not Just One Death” (Volume 65, issue 4) What role does language play in resisting colonialism and precipitating liberation? How does your piece engage with this question?Language is not merely a medium . . .
Read MoreWhen the first ceasefire of the year was first announced, on January 19th, 2025, at around 10:00 a.m., celebrations broke out all over Gaza. For those who had remained steadfast in the north, the truce meant the killing had finally stopped, and those who had been displaced to the south were celebrating . . .
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A Review of J. Malcolm Garcia’s Alabama Village: Faith, Hope, and Survival in a Southern Town (Seven Stories, 2025) From the get-go, let it be clear: this will be a partisan review. Early on, during the four-year-plus project that became Alabama Village, Malcolm mentioned to me in an email what he was . . .
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A light split the room where Rubén Darío was trying to write. On that side, a copy of Don Quixote; on this side, the untrimmed sheets of paper with words crossed out and the unread letter from a young poet in search of guidance and assistance. —from Mark Schafer’s translation of David . . .
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I greet an ancient refrigerator,once my father, now reduced to bare bones, yetit remains unbearably heavy. —from Jack Saebyok Jung’s translation of Heeum’s “The Use of a Window” (Volume 66, issue 3) Tell us about one of the first pieces you translated.One of the earliest pieces I translated was a poem by . . .
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“Brianna80.” I like the round number, eighty. 4s, 8s, multiples of 10, a number I would have written as a child on and on, practicing my numbers: 8 then 0 then 8 then 0, looping like kids holding hands in a playground. The number eighty, attached to the temporary name Bri-anna, was . . .
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The sun has coppered his brownas it has the mud on which we walk.Palms banana trees grow against the whitewall we barely see. Blue finches singin the wire cage he carries. Its greenperch is the same green as his trunks. —from Myronn Hardy’s “The Cage” (Volume 66, issue 3) Tell us about . . .
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This piece is excerpted from Media, Culture, and Decolonization: Re-righting the Subaltern Histories of Ghana, to be published on 9th December 2025 by Rutgers University Press. Even though Ghana Television (GTV) began transmission in 1965, it wasn’t until 1985 that Ghanaians had access to color television. And it was not until 1989 . . .
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MISS TANG was a plump woman in her thirties and our seventh-grade homeroom teacher. She had a kind, matronly smile but sprung into tantrums over trifles. Her punishment of choice was meditation. After school, we’d sit at our desks with straight backs, knee-bound palms, and closed-tight eyes while Miss Tang surveilled us . . .
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