JILL MAGI is an artist, critic, and educator whose research and teaching interests include poetry and poetics, experimental literature, handmade books, alternatives to mainstream publishing, and textile arts. Her books include LABOR (Nightboat Books), SLOT (Ugly Duckling Presse), Cadastral Map (Shearsman Books), Torchwood (Shearsman Books), and Threads (Futurepoem). Her essays, reviews, and creative works have been published in The Brooklyn Rail, Michigan Quarterly Review, Columbia Poetry Review, The Conversant, and The Review of Contemporary Fiction.
MAR 2015 | Fiction
I never thought my friends would go fight in the Gulf War. It seemed simple: we would move to Canada if necessary. The TV screen was mostly dark, there were reporters in red Patagonia jackets under the channels graphic, there were streaming lights across the sky and an occasional glow from the ground. We are live from Baghdad but our TV screen looked like a video game for which we had no controls.
MAR 2010 | Express
The father of Nodar Kumaritashvili, the young Georgian luger who died the day before the start of the Olympics, was himself a Soviet Union luger. His father was likely, during those broadcasts, called Russian.
DEC 09-JAN 10 | Express
I wanted to begin this inaugural sports column with something about Brazilian soccer. Such would be a global approacha corrective to the myopia of mainstream U.S. sports coverage. Football? Do you mean, soccer? So thats where I wanted to start.
AUG-SEPT 2002 | Fiction
Come over, Ill make you some spaghetti. I had no money when I got back from Mexico.
JUNE 2013 | Fiction
The archaeologist leaves a copy of her autobiography on the corner of the desk knowing that at night the inspector cannot resist reading the manuscript entitled My Seneca Village.
JUNE 2010 | Express
Hold onto your protective gear because this column races quickly through notes on the NBA finals, the NHL Stanley Cup, the Red Bull Arena debut, and a bit of World Cup coverage.
JUL-AUG 2006 | Fiction
Needing more time to arrive, I sit on a bench between ferry terminal and city gate, imagining that my father’s history is visible on my face.