Srividya Sivakumar The Heart Is an Attic Kolkata. Hawakal. 2018. 88 pages. Blessed are the ones with attics in their homes. For an attic is a rare construct that serves as a repository of bits and pieces of memory, which in a hectic life are treated as redundant. For Srividya Sivakumar, “the heart is an attic” as the title goes, but it becomes a storehouse of not only memories but also the new and immediate. One of them is a tchotchke, a trinket, and she says, “Love is a Tchotchke.” As a Tamil and a cosmopolitan , she stashes the “three languages” that she can swear in. Or it could be “a poem that has sunk without a trace.” Or some hometown memories “in the brass memory chest in her mind” and in her attic. Or it could be the social stigma of not bearing children. Or they could be “fifteen of the forty-eight moles that map my body.” Strange contradictions exist in this magical attic. For every memory brings forth a nonmemory, too. Dichotomies work as love and nonlove, mother and nonmother, lover and nonlover, Tamil and non-Tamil, rural and nonrural. See this drama unfolding in the attic: “new love is sitting at the table next to me holding hands . . . old love is looking at newspaper and not speaking.” The attic here turns into a theater of conflict. Attic is where all rebellion happens. For example, picture this: “The first thing I did when you left me for good, was to cut my hair.” She is talking about pubic hair. Her body she describes as “Reclaimed land.” Whatever is reclaimed from the man, I presume, goes into the attic: “my body . . . my lips . . . my cunt . . . my heart . . . my writing . . . my life . . . my people.” Sivakumar is an unashamed recorder of Everywoman’s life but also excels as a confessor. She can jolt the reader with her direct and fleshy approach to love, but she is also the one to be found in the darkness of her attic mumbling confessions to herself. The attic is the confession chamber for her, and it exists in her heart. Ravi Shanker N. Palakkad, India Juan Gelman Today / Hoy Trans. Lisa Rose Bradford. Normal, Illinois. Co•im•press. 2018. 288 pages. Recipient of the Cervantes Prize, Juan Gelman is best known for his activism, passion, and the tragic death of his son and daughter-in-law during Argentina’s dictatorship of the 1970s. Gelman lived in exile, and much of his life’s work dealt with themes of protest, loss, love, nostalgia, and his Ukrainian Jewish heritage. He gained fame with center-justified, unpunctuated poems that resemble the human body, the language emulating the breathless, panting recovery from almost drowning. Today / Hoy is a surprising departure. Instead of resembling the living, suffering body, the 288 prose blocks consist of almost impenetrable juxtapositions. And yet, meanings blossom from the middle of the poems rather than from beginnings or endings. In CXXX, the “blossom” sentences appear in the middle: “That which is structured falls apart and only they take note. Ten different names for the rain filter through the clefts of a carnation.” Gelman addresses the nature of reality, perception, and language itself as they contribute to either an irreducible ambiguity or a liberated language that unleashes a multiplicity of possible meanings. Gelman does not group the work into themes, topics, or narratives. Instead, he allows juxtapositions to create their own order and disorder. CLXXX explores how a word “viaja en sus negaciones y desastres” (travels in its negations and disasters). CLCVI plumbs expressionless sorrow; LXXXIX tellingly evokes the disassociations of torture as it paints a surrealistic vision of a tree bursting into song, a person rinsing the tears that grew in her hands. World Literature in Review 86 WLT NOVEMBER–DECEMBER 2018 As a whole, the blocks construct an entire philosophy of being and knowledge. It would be interesting to reorganize the prose poems of Today / Hoy into categories and a structure that clearly delineates different ways of describing the interior metamorphoses of language and knowledge. However, that is not the way that they are arranged in this collection. You, the reader, can turn the...