An international quarterly founded in 1965 featuring fiction, poetry, and memoir by some of the world's best writers along with fresh essays, columns and reviews on literature, art, and politics. 

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Salmagundi contributor Alex Dimitrov with Executive Editor Peg Boyers after Alex read from his new book of poems, Begging For It, at Skidmore. Keep a keen ear open for this very gifted young writer. Here’s a link to five new poems online at The Brooklyn Rail including “Nights With People, Days Without” which knocked us out at last night’s event: http://www.brooklynrail.org/2013/06/poetry/five-dimitrovAnd here’s a poem that’s in the book which first appeared in Salmagundi Magazine:Refusing the LedgeBY ALEX DIMITROVFor months only travelers and the deadtouching you. In hotel rooms higherthan a summer suicide—laced with sugarsand sweat, the steps from the interiorto the ledge. An address book, a book of names,someone’s life laid open in bed.So when he spoke to youyour hair grew a shade darkerand his voice felt cooler than the pavement outside—where a child lost his only possession,a balloon deflating through his ribs.How brief, how brilliant the minutes felt in their unkindness.And you chose to be touchedinstead of touching down.

Salmagundi contributor Alex Dimitrov with Executive Editor Peg Boyers after Alex read from his new book of poems, Begging For It, at Skidmore. Keep a keen ear open for this very gifted young writer. Here’s a link to five new poems online at The Brooklyn Rail including “Nights With People, Days Without” which knocked us out at last night’s event: 

http://www.brooklynrail.org/2013/06/poetry/five-dimitrov

And here’s a poem that’s in the book which first appeared in Salmagundi Magazine:


Refusing the Ledge
BY ALEX DIMITROV


For months only travelers and the dead
touching you. In hotel rooms higher

than a summer suicide—laced with sugars
and sweat, the steps from the interior

to the ledge. An address book, a book of names,
someone’s life laid open in bed.

So when he spoke to you
your hair grew a shade darker

and his voice felt cooler 
than the pavement outside—

where a child lost his only possession,
a balloon deflating through his ribs.

How brief, how brilliant 
the minutes felt in their unkindness.

And you chose to be touched
instead of touching down.

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