SoFloPoJo Nominations: Best of the Net, Pushcart, Best Microfiction, The Best Small Fictions
Special Section
August 2022
Translations of PAVEL RYSTAR (Palad) Poetry by Ukrainian-American Poets
Pavel Rystar (Palad) is mostly a web author from Kyiv, Ukraine. He was born in Kyiv in 1968, and started writing poetry in 2006. Published in Novaya Realnost, Interreal nost Literary Almanac, and after the invasion of Ukraine, Rystar is a volunteer with the Ukrainian Armed Forces and left for the front lines to defend his homeland against Russian invaders.
Translated by Liya Chernyakova
***
Where your shadow crumbles on the pier
Under shrill-voiced seagull brazen shrikes
I wondered cluelessly just tripping here and there
Never seen by you and never recognized
~
The fog was crawling sleek as python over the coast,
The devourer of raw fishermen and celestial corpses
You were mixing words, positions, and poses
Warning of options and threats the internet had posed on us.
~
I was humming, agonizing every night
Catching glimpse of your caressing moves
Strolling into the pier still staying out of your sight
Herding rustles-splashes-mists keeping calm and quiet
~
Soaked to the bone in profusely liquid glass,
By Novemberish weaned off busking warms
Once again with Internet, you flowed and lapsed
Me and pier are graying… probably with snow
Translated by Victor Fet
On a Sultry Night
I was young and brave
I ran Beyond-the-River,
and I ran Beyond-the-Forest
to assert my Cartesian right
when my mom and dad tried to fence me
in my childhood prison bound by the fifth tree stump
I made a pledge with my neighbor, the dreamer Boris,
to conquer foreign lands,
countless villages in fruitful valleys
Among the first to taste rock-and-roll
we made psychos of superintendents
then everything somehow faded
and stopped ringing
Boris takes care of his grandkids in Oklahoma
I'm basically happy confined by the fifth tree stump
but on a sultry night
in a heavenly gathering
coming like chickens to mother moon
the stellar bodies sing
of Beyond-the-River,
of Beyond-the-Forest
to me, a sleepless oath-breaker
Translated by Gari Light
Even If
It's not about this or that.
Or no one, and nothing really
I’ll be your poet, and that’s a fact
even if my appearance is silly.
Utilizing rhymes, as if they’re daggers
demonstrating fairytale agility,
I’ll inscribe myself in your forever tablets,
and forgetting me will cease to be a possibility.
I will be collecting at all places,
all the drafts, and snow and the wind,
won’t hesitate appearing crazy,
lure you out with a smell of hyacinth.
You will know, it’s me among the others,
you will carve me out from the clouds,
leafy veins would not serve as the covers
frenzy of mosquito stings are doubts.
There would be that cool October pizza,
waiting in the garden just for you,
take a bite of me, as doing so, it’s a
heaven, hell, or this and that is true.
You would place yourself in greenery of maple,
in a way, defending with your palm,
but the orange rabbit would enable
gentle fire of mine, to bring you calm
Translated by: Olga Shenfeld
***
Alice is leaving
It’s easier not to see
She says farewell
My Fox I’m going to roses
Be loyal or free
But pass to a secret tree –
No candle, nor bell –
As her chat is hidden and closed
~
Orange and reddish
Is a zero outside
Liver is grim-
After party next door to Alice
Desperate rabbit
Is tickling in cage inside
And my ribs for him -
Like a barricade back in Paris.
~
I’m drunk like a sailor
With the bony unshaved cheeks
I am looking to abyss
Or abyss is somewhere near
But somebody tells me -
Some heaven reception leaks
You’re looking my Alice
From the opposite side of mirror.
Pavel Rystar (Palad) is mostly a web author from Kyiv, Ukraine. He was born in Kyiv in 1968, and started writing poetry in 2006. Published in Novaya Realnost, Interreal nost Literary Almanac, and after the invasion of Ukraine, Rystar is a volunteer with the Ukrainian Armed Forces and left for the front lines to defend his homeland against Russian invaders.
Translated by Liya Chernyakova
***
Where your shadow crumbles on the pier
Under shrill-voiced seagull brazen shrikes
I wondered cluelessly just tripping here and there
Never seen by you and never recognized
~
The fog was crawling sleek as python over the coast,
The devourer of raw fishermen and celestial corpses
You were mixing words, positions, and poses
Warning of options and threats the internet had posed on us.
~
I was humming, agonizing every night
Catching glimpse of your caressing moves
Strolling into the pier still staying out of your sight
Herding rustles-splashes-mists keeping calm and quiet
~
Soaked to the bone in profusely liquid glass,
By Novemberish weaned off busking warms
Once again with Internet, you flowed and lapsed
Me and pier are graying… probably with snow
Translated by Victor Fet
On a Sultry Night
I was young and brave
I ran Beyond-the-River,
and I ran Beyond-the-Forest
to assert my Cartesian right
when my mom and dad tried to fence me
in my childhood prison bound by the fifth tree stump
I made a pledge with my neighbor, the dreamer Boris,
to conquer foreign lands,
countless villages in fruitful valleys
Among the first to taste rock-and-roll
we made psychos of superintendents
then everything somehow faded
and stopped ringing
Boris takes care of his grandkids in Oklahoma
I'm basically happy confined by the fifth tree stump
but on a sultry night
in a heavenly gathering
coming like chickens to mother moon
the stellar bodies sing
of Beyond-the-River,
of Beyond-the-Forest
to me, a sleepless oath-breaker
Translated by Gari Light
Even If
It's not about this or that.
Or no one, and nothing really
I’ll be your poet, and that’s a fact
even if my appearance is silly.
Utilizing rhymes, as if they’re daggers
demonstrating fairytale agility,
I’ll inscribe myself in your forever tablets,
and forgetting me will cease to be a possibility.
I will be collecting at all places,
all the drafts, and snow and the wind,
won’t hesitate appearing crazy,
lure you out with a smell of hyacinth.
You will know, it’s me among the others,
you will carve me out from the clouds,
leafy veins would not serve as the covers
frenzy of mosquito stings are doubts.
There would be that cool October pizza,
waiting in the garden just for you,
take a bite of me, as doing so, it’s a
heaven, hell, or this and that is true.
You would place yourself in greenery of maple,
in a way, defending with your palm,
but the orange rabbit would enable
gentle fire of mine, to bring you calm
Translated by: Olga Shenfeld
***
Alice is leaving
It’s easier not to see
She says farewell
My Fox I’m going to roses
Be loyal or free
But pass to a secret tree –
No candle, nor bell –
As her chat is hidden and closed
~
Orange and reddish
Is a zero outside
Liver is grim-
After party next door to Alice
Desperate rabbit
Is tickling in cage inside
And my ribs for him -
Like a barricade back in Paris.
~
I’m drunk like a sailor
With the bony unshaved cheeks
I am looking to abyss
Or abyss is somewhere near
But somebody tells me -
Some heaven reception leaks
You’re looking my Alice
From the opposite side of mirror.
May 2022
- We asked poets one question—LENNON OR MCCARTNEY?
|
Traci Brimhall:
Yoko 4ver |
Joseph Fasano:
Harrison!
Harrison!
Dorianne Laux:
I love them both, of course, and always thought of John Lennon as the "leader", maybe the driving creative force behind the Beatles. But I always loved McCarney, too, and endlessly played his solo album, Ram. But after I saw the documentary, Get Back, I was convinced it was McCartney who was the force, the musician, and the songwriter. When I saw Ringo leaning on the piano while Paul played and then muse aloud, I could just watch him play the piano all day, with such love and respect and admiration in his eyes, and then the next minute get up and do a spontaneous soft shoe, both of them laughing, showed me how Paul was really the hero, and yet didn't act like one. He was, in addition to all his talent, a good friend.
I love them both, of course, and always thought of John Lennon as the "leader", maybe the driving creative force behind the Beatles. But I always loved McCarney, too, and endlessly played his solo album, Ram. But after I saw the documentary, Get Back, I was convinced it was McCartney who was the force, the musician, and the songwriter. When I saw Ringo leaning on the piano while Paul played and then muse aloud, I could just watch him play the piano all day, with such love and respect and admiration in his eyes, and then the next minute get up and do a spontaneous soft shoe, both of them laughing, showed me how Paul was really the hero, and yet didn't act like one. He was, in addition to all his talent, a good friend.
Jim Daniels: Lennon Laure-Anne Bossalaar: Lennon! Lennon! Lennon!
Maureen Seaton: Lennon
|
Nikole Brown:
Lennon |
Jessica Jacobs:
Lennon for me |
Bob Holman:
I ate up the Jackson documentary. How do yo become the best rock band in the world? The opening — Lennon at 14 on his third band, with McCartney forms Quarrymen at 13, Harrison joins 3 months later. He’s 12. Hamburg. 3 shows a day, 7 days a week. Hour after hour in the studio. Cut to the now of the film. Still together. A lesson in creative process. When things get tough, let in the fresh air of Chuck Berry, Elvis. And everyone joins in! I’ve always been a Lennon man (politics!) but the first episode opened me up to Paul in a way I’d never been before. He was political in the personal and MADE that record/event happen. But I’m still a Lennon man. Politics. Outrage. Pataphysics. Lennon
Michael Minassian:
Lennon- Musically edgier, with a sharper, more political wit.
Martha Silano:
All due respect to Paul, but I do prefer John Lennon’s genius and vision.
Lola Haskins:
If you knew that Yo Yo Ma is my hero, you could probably predict my answer and why I chose it. But just in, here it is: Between Lennon and Mccartney I prefer McCartney, because of the two, he seems gentler, more humble.. I have a poem called Winnowing the True, which is about how you know the false from the real, and for me its last line--- "A master will tell you he plays, a little" -- says it all.
David Kirby:
No question -- Macca, as they call our Paul back in Liverpool.
I ate up the Jackson documentary. How do yo become the best rock band in the world? The opening — Lennon at 14 on his third band, with McCartney forms Quarrymen at 13, Harrison joins 3 months later. He’s 12. Hamburg. 3 shows a day, 7 days a week. Hour after hour in the studio. Cut to the now of the film. Still together. A lesson in creative process. When things get tough, let in the fresh air of Chuck Berry, Elvis. And everyone joins in! I’ve always been a Lennon man (politics!) but the first episode opened me up to Paul in a way I’d never been before. He was political in the personal and MADE that record/event happen. But I’m still a Lennon man. Politics. Outrage. Pataphysics. Lennon
Michael Minassian:
Lennon- Musically edgier, with a sharper, more political wit.
Martha Silano:
All due respect to Paul, but I do prefer John Lennon’s genius and vision.
Lola Haskins:
If you knew that Yo Yo Ma is my hero, you could probably predict my answer and why I chose it. But just in, here it is: Between Lennon and Mccartney I prefer McCartney, because of the two, he seems gentler, more humble.. I have a poem called Winnowing the True, which is about how you know the false from the real, and for me its last line--- "A master will tell you he plays, a little" -- says it all.
David Kirby:
No question -- Macca, as they call our Paul back in Liverpool.
Denise Duhamel:
Lennon!
Lennon!
Hilary sideris
Lennon!
Armine Iknadossian
Lennon!
Sally Naylor
Lennon
Mara Fein
McCartney. Absolutely!
Gloria Mindock
McCartney definitely!!!
Steve Kronen
Most definitely McCartney. He's one of the 20th century's great melodists - Gershwin, Carmichael, Bacharach, Paul Simon. Lennon's great but he hasn't the depth or fluidity of McCartney.
Lennon!
Armine Iknadossian
Lennon!
Sally Naylor
Lennon
Mara Fein
McCartney. Absolutely!
Gloria Mindock
McCartney definitely!!!
Steve Kronen
Most definitely McCartney. He's one of the 20th century's great melodists - Gershwin, Carmichael, Bacharach, Paul Simon. Lennon's great but he hasn't the depth or fluidity of McCartney.
Tim Kahl:
It is clear to me after watching the Get Back Sessions in their entirety that The Beatles were at their best when they were yukking it up together and having fun. I certainly had a newfound respect for such minor gems, such as "Dig a Pony" where The Beatles are at their irreverent best. "I Dig a Pony" is slyly hinting at the absurdity/irony in all the things the narrator's voice during the song pines after . . . but then in the style of any pop balladeer, the song belts out its preference for you, you, you (the listener/the beloved). Such a move is almost obligatory. Without this sincere yearning for the other that completes, the song would just be a bit of weirdness. But it's that weirdness that draws me into The Beatles, the later works more than the clean cut early work that understand its role in promoting romance in the urban wilderness. For me, "A Day in The Life" will always trump "I Want to Hold Your Hand". I think this is mostly because I want to see a bit of strangeness preside in the realm of the mainstream. Did any group in pop music history ever do this to the degree The Beatles did and maintain such an addled group of followers? It speaks to the absolute freedom they explored as songwriters, and they were rewarded for it. If only real life worked that way, particularly real life as it pertains to pop song writers. Go too edgy, too dark, too abstract and you may see an adoring public turn. Or at the very least get a puzzled look on its collective face.
So who is most responsible for this kind of joie de vivre that underscores the band at its fun-loving best? McCartney is clearly the man with the most tools in his toolbox. He sings, arranges, plays bass, guitar and piano. Also, he is clearly the one who has the most managerial talent, seems most at ease giving others direction. To his credit, there always needs to be someone who is holding everything on course while everyone else is cutting up. So much of the rounding and shaping of the band's sound was due to McCartney. But it was not without a bit of wounding as well. Harrison, who arguably wrote the two most well-loved Beatles songs (if Spotify has any say in the matter) of all-time (and maybe two of the best) in "Something" and "Here Comes the Sun," clearly took umbrage during those last sessions. And to my perspective, rightly so. Paul was experiencing just a little too much glee at being bandleader. But this, too, was not due to malice, but due to unbridled enthusiasm. [Note: The Get Back Sessions are a curiosity to me in that the band members all looked upon that time as a real downer, the beginning of the undoing, but a reflection on the footage finds them having a pretty good time. It makes one wonder what the sessions were like when they were all getting along and recognizing how much fun they were having] In the scene where Lennon and McCartney are discussing Harrison's abrupt departure, it is apparent that Lennon is the one giving voice to Harrison's grievances. He is going to bat for his aggrieved bandmate. Lennon, it seems, understands the viewpoint of the underling.
He was the one who had that sneer of the underclass that would make fun of all the establishment pomp and propriety (as if such mannerisms really conferred a more distinguished rearing). He was the truth-teller to McCartney's keener sense of understanding how to be likable. You can see this in "A Day in the Life" which is mostly John's song, and it offers perhaps the most poignant social criticism the band ever produced. In terms of gravitas, there might not be a Beatles song on a par with it. What was McCartney's contribution to the song? "I'd love to turn you on." That line tempered all the hypercritical sarcasm that was streaming from Lennon's pen until that point. McCartney understood better than Lennon that in the end they were really just "selling soap" and not offering a manifesto or a clear-eyed assessment of the modern world. It's Lennon's brooding sensibility that endears him to me more than McCartney. Paul put his faith in "Silly Love Songs" and they served him well . . . "and what's wrong that? I'd like to know, so here we go again." If he hadn't made it as a British pop sensation, you can almost picture him as a spiritual advisor at a Big Sur retreat. Lennon would be too caustic for such a role. Only later when he meets Yoko and expands his mind to dwell upon the singularities of love and peace does he begin to quiet his inner critic. Perhaps it is the beginning of that process we see during the Get Back Sessions which is ushering the band to its end. Lennon's edge is fading. He is self-medicating, strung out on heroin at that moment to take the edge off, and as opiates often do, it is opening the doors or perception (in Huxleyian fashion) to lead him to embrace the universe and its eminent flow of source. If this is indeed the case and I'm not getting ahead of myself, then perhaps they/he understood that The Beatles would fall into becoming an echo of themselves. McCartney would lead them into the age of pop stardom beyond the 80s. It's probably best that the band fell into disrepair at the time they did, those heady times, when people took ideas seriously and curiosity was seen as a virtue. It's hard to imagine the soul rot that Lennon might have experienced if he had lived through Reagan/Thatcher and the technocracy of today where practicality is the main concern.
The Beatles' mystique certainly derives from the era they occupied. It was an era of teenage acting out and wonder. It was not ready for the responsibility of adult management that computer surveillance has made so easy to achieve. Lennon was the cut-up with a mind that could offer up analog analysis and refused to be rounded up into the cattle herd. McCartney is digital management that offers up a team-building spirit to ensure we feel human at the end of the day. It is interesting to me that each of these "types" yearns for what the other has in full supply. It is an almost perfect symbiosis. Whichever end of the stick one grabs, one can stir a can of paint, draw a glyph in the sand, dig a hole to plant a pumpkin seed, or throw it a very long way with the hope the dog can fetch it and return it as fast as it can.
It is clear to me after watching the Get Back Sessions in their entirety that The Beatles were at their best when they were yukking it up together and having fun. I certainly had a newfound respect for such minor gems, such as "Dig a Pony" where The Beatles are at their irreverent best. "I Dig a Pony" is slyly hinting at the absurdity/irony in all the things the narrator's voice during the song pines after . . . but then in the style of any pop balladeer, the song belts out its preference for you, you, you (the listener/the beloved). Such a move is almost obligatory. Without this sincere yearning for the other that completes, the song would just be a bit of weirdness. But it's that weirdness that draws me into The Beatles, the later works more than the clean cut early work that understand its role in promoting romance in the urban wilderness. For me, "A Day in The Life" will always trump "I Want to Hold Your Hand". I think this is mostly because I want to see a bit of strangeness preside in the realm of the mainstream. Did any group in pop music history ever do this to the degree The Beatles did and maintain such an addled group of followers? It speaks to the absolute freedom they explored as songwriters, and they were rewarded for it. If only real life worked that way, particularly real life as it pertains to pop song writers. Go too edgy, too dark, too abstract and you may see an adoring public turn. Or at the very least get a puzzled look on its collective face.
So who is most responsible for this kind of joie de vivre that underscores the band at its fun-loving best? McCartney is clearly the man with the most tools in his toolbox. He sings, arranges, plays bass, guitar and piano. Also, he is clearly the one who has the most managerial talent, seems most at ease giving others direction. To his credit, there always needs to be someone who is holding everything on course while everyone else is cutting up. So much of the rounding and shaping of the band's sound was due to McCartney. But it was not without a bit of wounding as well. Harrison, who arguably wrote the two most well-loved Beatles songs (if Spotify has any say in the matter) of all-time (and maybe two of the best) in "Something" and "Here Comes the Sun," clearly took umbrage during those last sessions. And to my perspective, rightly so. Paul was experiencing just a little too much glee at being bandleader. But this, too, was not due to malice, but due to unbridled enthusiasm. [Note: The Get Back Sessions are a curiosity to me in that the band members all looked upon that time as a real downer, the beginning of the undoing, but a reflection on the footage finds them having a pretty good time. It makes one wonder what the sessions were like when they were all getting along and recognizing how much fun they were having] In the scene where Lennon and McCartney are discussing Harrison's abrupt departure, it is apparent that Lennon is the one giving voice to Harrison's grievances. He is going to bat for his aggrieved bandmate. Lennon, it seems, understands the viewpoint of the underling.
He was the one who had that sneer of the underclass that would make fun of all the establishment pomp and propriety (as if such mannerisms really conferred a more distinguished rearing). He was the truth-teller to McCartney's keener sense of understanding how to be likable. You can see this in "A Day in the Life" which is mostly John's song, and it offers perhaps the most poignant social criticism the band ever produced. In terms of gravitas, there might not be a Beatles song on a par with it. What was McCartney's contribution to the song? "I'd love to turn you on." That line tempered all the hypercritical sarcasm that was streaming from Lennon's pen until that point. McCartney understood better than Lennon that in the end they were really just "selling soap" and not offering a manifesto or a clear-eyed assessment of the modern world. It's Lennon's brooding sensibility that endears him to me more than McCartney. Paul put his faith in "Silly Love Songs" and they served him well . . . "and what's wrong that? I'd like to know, so here we go again." If he hadn't made it as a British pop sensation, you can almost picture him as a spiritual advisor at a Big Sur retreat. Lennon would be too caustic for such a role. Only later when he meets Yoko and expands his mind to dwell upon the singularities of love and peace does he begin to quiet his inner critic. Perhaps it is the beginning of that process we see during the Get Back Sessions which is ushering the band to its end. Lennon's edge is fading. He is self-medicating, strung out on heroin at that moment to take the edge off, and as opiates often do, it is opening the doors or perception (in Huxleyian fashion) to lead him to embrace the universe and its eminent flow of source. If this is indeed the case and I'm not getting ahead of myself, then perhaps they/he understood that The Beatles would fall into becoming an echo of themselves. McCartney would lead them into the age of pop stardom beyond the 80s. It's probably best that the band fell into disrepair at the time they did, those heady times, when people took ideas seriously and curiosity was seen as a virtue. It's hard to imagine the soul rot that Lennon might have experienced if he had lived through Reagan/Thatcher and the technocracy of today where practicality is the main concern.
The Beatles' mystique certainly derives from the era they occupied. It was an era of teenage acting out and wonder. It was not ready for the responsibility of adult management that computer surveillance has made so easy to achieve. Lennon was the cut-up with a mind that could offer up analog analysis and refused to be rounded up into the cattle herd. McCartney is digital management that offers up a team-building spirit to ensure we feel human at the end of the day. It is interesting to me that each of these "types" yearns for what the other has in full supply. It is an almost perfect symbiosis. Whichever end of the stick one grabs, one can stir a can of paint, draw a glyph in the sand, dig a hole to plant a pumpkin seed, or throw it a very long way with the hope the dog can fetch it and return it as fast as it can.
Megan Merchant: Lennon
Kerry Trautman:
Oh boy. If I had to pick, I guess I’d say Lennon
Oh boy. If I had to pick, I guess I’d say Lennon
David Miller: Lennon. And I hasten to add, with all affection for McCartney and immense respect for his decades of accomplishment. But I admit that when I think about it, I pause at the year that Lennon was taken away from us. Post-1980, the Lennon-McCartney question became an entirely different matter than it was before then.
Christine Jackson
The two together were magic, but I give McCartney the edge—for inventive harmonics, sweet melodies, exuberant rhythms, and tender lyrics. Plus, in the early 60s, he was, to my teen mind, better looking than Lennon.
Sean Sexton
I can’t get over how much they did for one another: “fingers in each other’s pies.”McCartney was a son of a real musician. Cut him and he bleeds music! I used to be singularly a proponent of Lennon, considered him true genius, but I’ve grown to appreciate the melodic soul of McCartney. They were, it must be realized, indispensible to one another. Each had deficiencies. Harrison filled an important void in the picture. It was quite a bit of magic, all of it.
Holly York:
McCartney
Mike Jurkovic
McCartney
Christine Jackson
The two together were magic, but I give McCartney the edge—for inventive harmonics, sweet melodies, exuberant rhythms, and tender lyrics. Plus, in the early 60s, he was, to my teen mind, better looking than Lennon.
Sean Sexton
I can’t get over how much they did for one another: “fingers in each other’s pies.”McCartney was a son of a real musician. Cut him and he bleeds music! I used to be singularly a proponent of Lennon, considered him true genius, but I’ve grown to appreciate the melodic soul of McCartney. They were, it must be realized, indispensible to one another. Each had deficiencies. Harrison filled an important void in the picture. It was quite a bit of magic, all of it.
Holly York:
McCartney
Mike Jurkovic
McCartney
|
Amanda Russell
The short version: Whichever one wrote "Here Comes the Sun.” (Ed. note: Harrison) The longer version: Here Comes the Son by Amanda Russell In a basement apartment I hold my Little Darling. Orange hair and eyes of sky, a helpless form of himself like a window closed up with blinds. Hard to see past a rain-cloud brain encased in unseasonal ice (I don’t know how to melt it) crystalizing into a new life. Finally done pushing through a birth which ripped its source before cutting the cord. Hormonal monsoons afterwards produce chills of postpartum depression amid June. My mom checks in. Again I am crying for reasons unap-parent. She turns on a song and a light, opens blinds to let in sun, sun, sun. Smiles return to our faces like some old friend turned stranger, out of context in this Midwest town whose jazz in June is going fisticuffs with my internal moods, magnifying all glimmers of hope until for the first time in what feels like years, I believe it when George Harrison sings it’s alright. |
|
Earl Hines
Lennon, definitely. Claire Bateman That’s a tough one. I’d have to say McCartney. Rebecca Lanier Lennon. Angela N Torres McCartney. |
Susannah W. Simpson Lennon |
Victor B. Johnson, Sr.
That is a hard one to decide but I will go with John Lennon
Rick Campbell
i can’t choose. on what basis? talent? charm? sweetness?
Though they got song writing credit together i see them as different entities,
talents and people. McCartney might have been the better musician, had the better voice,
but i don’t like one more than the other.
Yvonne Zipter
Tough call. But I’m going to go with Lennon, whose lyrics were more complex, overall.
Virgil Suarez
Lennon all the way, McCartney pales by comparison.
John King
McCartney
Grace Cavalieri
Lennon
Catherine Prescott
Lennon
Terese Svoboda
At sixteen, McCarthy. At my indeterminate age, Lennon.
Tony Barnstone
Well gotta be Lennon, though I think Ram is a brilliant solo album
Patricia Carragon
Lennon
Tricia Knoll
McCartney: Let It Be, Hey Jude
Kushal Poddar
Paul McCartney
Lúcia Leão
McCartney
Rita Maria Martinez
McCartney
That is a hard one to decide but I will go with John Lennon
Rick Campbell
i can’t choose. on what basis? talent? charm? sweetness?
Though they got song writing credit together i see them as different entities,
talents and people. McCartney might have been the better musician, had the better voice,
but i don’t like one more than the other.
Yvonne Zipter
Tough call. But I’m going to go with Lennon, whose lyrics were more complex, overall.
Virgil Suarez
Lennon all the way, McCartney pales by comparison.
John King
McCartney
Grace Cavalieri
Lennon
Catherine Prescott
Lennon
Terese Svoboda
At sixteen, McCarthy. At my indeterminate age, Lennon.
Tony Barnstone
Well gotta be Lennon, though I think Ram is a brilliant solo album
Patricia Carragon
Lennon
Tricia Knoll
McCartney: Let It Be, Hey Jude
Kushal Poddar
Paul McCartney
Lúcia Leão
McCartney
Rita Maria Martinez
McCartney
Melissa Studdard
Yoko and Stella! Because--love, poetry, and vegan fashion
Yoko and Stella! Because--love, poetry, and vegan fashion
Corey Mesler:
John Lennon: "Strawberry Fields Forever" "I am the Walrus" "Help!" "Norwegian Wood" and my favorite Beatles song, "Tomorrow Never Knows”
Betsy Sholl: Hard to say. McCartney, I guess.
Nicole Medina:
Lennon all the way
Jennifer Jean
Since there's no option for: lennonANDmccartney
I choose Lennon
Marianne Szlyk: I would say Lennon for the words, style, and intrigue of his character. However, I am sure that my answer is also shaped by growing up in the 70s and 80s. Lennon's songs were on my rock station but not on my mother's pop station, and then we lost him in 1980 just as the older generation lost JFK in 1963.
Kenli Doss:
Lennon, of course!
Greg Byrd:
McCartney
John Lennon: "Strawberry Fields Forever" "I am the Walrus" "Help!" "Norwegian Wood" and my favorite Beatles song, "Tomorrow Never Knows”
Betsy Sholl: Hard to say. McCartney, I guess.
Nicole Medina:
Lennon all the way
Jennifer Jean
Since there's no option for: lennonANDmccartney
I choose Lennon
Marianne Szlyk: I would say Lennon for the words, style, and intrigue of his character. However, I am sure that my answer is also shaped by growing up in the 70s and 80s. Lennon's songs were on my rock station but not on my mother's pop station, and then we lost him in 1980 just as the older generation lost JFK in 1963.
Kenli Doss:
Lennon, of course!
Greg Byrd:
McCartney
Jeff Santosuosso
Lennon was a lyricist. McCartney is a composer. I'll take George.
You inspired me to "write" (compose) a poem of opening lines from Lennon/McCartney songs. I thought your question was a prompt, and this is how I respond.
Stay safe. Screw Putin. Tucker Carlson is tantamount to a war criminal, even if we are technically not at war.
The White Poem
Is there anybody going to listen to my story?
I’ve got something to tell you that might cause you pain.
Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something I think you’ll understand.
Help! I need somebody.
Flew in from Miami Beach, BOAC.
It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog.
This happened once before.
Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace.
Here come old flat-top, he come grooving up slowly.
I’ve just seen a face I can’t forget the time or place.
Have you seen Polythene Pam?
She came in through the bathroom window.
I read the news today, oh boy, about a lucky man who made the grade.
Jojo was a man who thought he was a loner.
Oh darling, please believe me.
There are places I remember
Roll up! Roll up for the magical mystery tour
Picture yourself on a boat on a river.
Wednesday morning at five o’clock as the day begins
Here comes the sun king
Good day, sunshine.
Penny Lane there is a barber sharing photographs
Let me take you down ‘cause I’m going to Strawberry Fields.
I was alone, I took a ride. I didn’t know what I would find there.
Well, somewhere in the black mining hills of Dakota
It was twenty years ago today Sergeant Pepper taught the band to play
In the town where I was born lived a man who sailed to sea
Standing in the dockets of Hampton
Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away
Day after day alone on a hill
Once there was a way to get back homeward
It’s been a long time now I’m coming back home
The long and winding road that leads to your door
Half of what I say is meaningless
I’m so tired I haven’t slept a wink
Here I stand, head in hand
Words are flowing off like endless rain into a paper cup
I’m fixing a hole where the rain gets in.
I want to tell you my head is full of things to say
Ah, because the world is round it turns me on
Try to see it my way. Do I have to keep on talking ‘til I can’t go on?
You say yes. I say no. You say stop and I say go, go, go.
I am he as you are me and we are all together
You don’t realize how much I really need you.
You’ll never hear how much I really love you.
To lead a better life I need my love to be here.
When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.
Lennon was a lyricist. McCartney is a composer. I'll take George.
You inspired me to "write" (compose) a poem of opening lines from Lennon/McCartney songs. I thought your question was a prompt, and this is how I respond.
Stay safe. Screw Putin. Tucker Carlson is tantamount to a war criminal, even if we are technically not at war.
The White Poem
Is there anybody going to listen to my story?
I’ve got something to tell you that might cause you pain.
Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something I think you’ll understand.
Help! I need somebody.
Flew in from Miami Beach, BOAC.
It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog.
This happened once before.
Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace.
Here come old flat-top, he come grooving up slowly.
I’ve just seen a face I can’t forget the time or place.
Have you seen Polythene Pam?
She came in through the bathroom window.
I read the news today, oh boy, about a lucky man who made the grade.
Jojo was a man who thought he was a loner.
Oh darling, please believe me.
There are places I remember
Roll up! Roll up for the magical mystery tour
Picture yourself on a boat on a river.
Wednesday morning at five o’clock as the day begins
Here comes the sun king
Good day, sunshine.
Penny Lane there is a barber sharing photographs
Let me take you down ‘cause I’m going to Strawberry Fields.
I was alone, I took a ride. I didn’t know what I would find there.
Well, somewhere in the black mining hills of Dakota
It was twenty years ago today Sergeant Pepper taught the band to play
In the town where I was born lived a man who sailed to sea
Standing in the dockets of Hampton
Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away
Day after day alone on a hill
Once there was a way to get back homeward
It’s been a long time now I’m coming back home
The long and winding road that leads to your door
Half of what I say is meaningless
I’m so tired I haven’t slept a wink
Here I stand, head in hand
Words are flowing off like endless rain into a paper cup
I’m fixing a hole where the rain gets in.
I want to tell you my head is full of things to say
Ah, because the world is round it turns me on
Try to see it my way. Do I have to keep on talking ‘til I can’t go on?
You say yes. I say no. You say stop and I say go, go, go.
I am he as you are me and we are all together
You don’t realize how much I really need you.
You’ll never hear how much I really love you.
To lead a better life I need my love to be here.
When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.
Vicki Iorio
Ringo and the many poems I have for him!
Ringo and the many poems I have for him!
February 2022
What Was/Is Your Favorite Poetry Event?
For the February 2022 Special Section, we asked poets and writers to tell us about your favorite poetry residence, reading series, festival, conference, colony, workshop, writing program, etc. When did you attend? Was there a poet or author there with whom you worked? What advice did you receive that has helped your work or career? Do you have photos? Attach them! Perhaps we’ll use one. This is an ongoing project, please feel free to send your memories of literary events and photos to lenny.dellarocca@gmail.com
Richard Ryal Plantation, FL
The most personally significant poetry event I attended was in the Silver Lake section of L.A.
The woman I was living with told me it was run by people in her 12-Step group who worked in film
and television. I was curious, though I had barely written or read anything like poetry for years,
so we went. I heard poetry that felt alive in a way that most poems on a page didn’t. Actors and
poets brought their pieces alive, even the worst of their poems.
The highlight for me was Harry Dean Stanton reading “His Last Duchess,” a poem I would have
considered familiar until that night. I heard it in a new way befitting its narrative character. Since
always carried a notebook when I could, I pulled it out and, without thinking, began writing.
My first line was, “Cain saw. Manhattan made him happy.” I had no idea what it meant or why it
came to me. This night was my undoing and poetry has provoked and stalked me regularly
since.
When I told Jane the next day I still didn’t know what to do with poetry on the page, she pulled
an anthology off her office shelf and opened it to James Dickey’s “The Heaven of Animals.” I was
stunned to find a full, self-contained reality that moved me without telling me what I should
think or believe. Now I needed to become a poet. I had a history of incredibly interesting, low
paying career choices and now I was committing to something that seldom made money for
even the best in the field. The trapdoor opened and I fell through.
The woman I was living with told me it was run by people in her 12-Step group who worked in film
and television. I was curious, though I had barely written or read anything like poetry for years,
so we went. I heard poetry that felt alive in a way that most poems on a page didn’t. Actors and
poets brought their pieces alive, even the worst of their poems.
The highlight for me was Harry Dean Stanton reading “His Last Duchess,” a poem I would have
considered familiar until that night. I heard it in a new way befitting its narrative character. Since
always carried a notebook when I could, I pulled it out and, without thinking, began writing.
My first line was, “Cain saw. Manhattan made him happy.” I had no idea what it meant or why it
came to me. This night was my undoing and poetry has provoked and stalked me regularly
since.
When I told Jane the next day I still didn’t know what to do with poetry on the page, she pulled
an anthology off her office shelf and opened it to James Dickey’s “The Heaven of Animals.” I was
stunned to find a full, self-contained reality that moved me without telling me what I should
think or believe. Now I needed to become a poet. I had a history of incredibly interesting, low
paying career choices and now I was committing to something that seldom made money for
even the best in the field. The trapdoor opened and I fell through.
Marybeth Walsh Neptune Beach, FL
AT A LITERARY FESTIVAL: BETTER THAN ELVIS
When my kids were small, our family made a pilgrimage to the National Book Festival in
Washington, DC. As my husband took the kids around, I sat, second in line to meet my literary hero,
daydreaming about the erudite conversation we’d have. I conjured up a bazillion intelligent questions and
comments about his masterwork with confidence. After all, I was a writer who taught college English--
just like him. Besides, his relative fame wouldn’t faze me in comparison to the bands I’d hung out with as
a student, who now fill stadiums.
When it was my turn to have my book signed, the author acted like there was no crowd, no line,
and no reason for us to be talking, other than two friends meeting by happenstance. We debated the drive
time from my obscure backcountry town to the capitol, and before saying goodbye, he kissed me on the
cheek. Dazed and clutching said cheek, I stumbled over to my family and proclaimed like a lovesick teen
who’d met Elvis, “He kissed me. He kissed me!” So much for the meeting of literary minds, I’d been
starstruck.
My kids came home from the festival with memories of the very gracious creators of the
Spiderwick Chronicles signing their books, and the Diary of the Wimpy Kid author telling a story while
drawing it on a white board—oh and a memory of their mother swooning. It’s still one of their favorite
family stories to recount and reminds me not to take this writing stuff too seriously.
Marybeth Walsh lives in Neptune Beach, Florida. After stints running a homeless shelter, creating nature education programs, moving furniture, and (book)clubbing, she has become a student in Reinhardt University’s MFA program.
(note: I write under my maiden name)
When my kids were small, our family made a pilgrimage to the National Book Festival in
Washington, DC. As my husband took the kids around, I sat, second in line to meet my literary hero,
daydreaming about the erudite conversation we’d have. I conjured up a bazillion intelligent questions and
comments about his masterwork with confidence. After all, I was a writer who taught college English--
just like him. Besides, his relative fame wouldn’t faze me in comparison to the bands I’d hung out with as
a student, who now fill stadiums.
When it was my turn to have my book signed, the author acted like there was no crowd, no line,
and no reason for us to be talking, other than two friends meeting by happenstance. We debated the drive
time from my obscure backcountry town to the capitol, and before saying goodbye, he kissed me on the
cheek. Dazed and clutching said cheek, I stumbled over to my family and proclaimed like a lovesick teen
who’d met Elvis, “He kissed me. He kissed me!” So much for the meeting of literary minds, I’d been
starstruck.
My kids came home from the festival with memories of the very gracious creators of the
Spiderwick Chronicles signing their books, and the Diary of the Wimpy Kid author telling a story while
drawing it on a white board—oh and a memory of their mother swooning. It’s still one of their favorite
family stories to recount and reminds me not to take this writing stuff too seriously.
Marybeth Walsh lives in Neptune Beach, Florida. After stints running a homeless shelter, creating nature education programs, moving furniture, and (book)clubbing, she has become a student in Reinhardt University’s MFA program.
(note: I write under my maiden name)
In Memoriam - Zan Gay
South Florida Poetry Journal recently lost a dear friend. Her intellect, poetry, kindness and workshops will be missed.
Here
Hint of lake wind, fishy
hot and dry from winter’s drought,
a slight breath
on delicates and tees
draped on an old wooden rack,
brevity pronounced
when the clothes stiffen, fragrant
with soap and a gardenia bush,
folded and put away,
a hold on to the Here,
yet there is a hurtling too
day in day out
towards the finish of our afternoons.
Zan Gay enjoyed art reference library work for many years. Her work has appeared in literary journals such as Feminist Studies, Phoebe, Slant, Tigertail.
Here
Hint of lake wind, fishy
hot and dry from winter’s drought,
a slight breath
on delicates and tees
draped on an old wooden rack,
brevity pronounced
when the clothes stiffen, fragrant
with soap and a gardenia bush,
folded and put away,
a hold on to the Here,
yet there is a hurtling too
day in day out
towards the finish of our afternoons.
Zan Gay enjoyed art reference library work for many years. Her work has appeared in literary journals such as Feminist Studies, Phoebe, Slant, Tigertail.
Click on the picture below to go to the Featured Story
The Neighborhood of Make Believe—after Thomas Lux
scroll down for more photo essays, travelogues and more
Poets in Prison
The Luis Angel Hernandez Florida Prison Poet Laureate is an honorary two-year position awarded by Exchange for Change and O, Miami Poetry Festival to a poet incarcerated within the Florida Department of Corrections.
The vision for of the Laureateship is to Increase visibility of Florida’s prison population, drawing attention to the lives and living conditions of incarcerated people; advocate for widespread, cost-free humanities education and programs in carceral settings nationwide; change public perception about incarcerated people,and assert the basic humanity of all living beings.
The contest is named in honor of Luis Angel Hernandez, an incarcerated Florida poet who passed away from cancer in 2018.
The current Luis Angel Hernandez Florida Prison Poet Laureate is Christopher Malek.
Malek’s poem “Bruises” appears at the Poetry Fundations’ wbsite-
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/155243/bruises-5ff7b464a6237
Malek is working on his first collection of poems, and his work has been commissioned by the University of Arizona’s Art for Justice project.
The vision for of the Laureateship is to Increase visibility of Florida’s prison population, drawing attention to the lives and living conditions of incarcerated people; advocate for widespread, cost-free humanities education and programs in carceral settings nationwide; change public perception about incarcerated people,and assert the basic humanity of all living beings.
The contest is named in honor of Luis Angel Hernandez, an incarcerated Florida poet who passed away from cancer in 2018.
The current Luis Angel Hernandez Florida Prison Poet Laureate is Christopher Malek.
Malek’s poem “Bruises” appears at the Poetry Fundations’ wbsite-
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/155243/bruises-5ff7b464a6237
Malek is working on his first collection of poems, and his work has been commissioned by the University of Arizona’s Art for Justice project.
Tell Us Something You've Done That Our Facebook Friends Have Not
a cento by Facebook friends
Lauren Had Jimmy Page drive me home from Thee Image (Miami).
Jennifer: I stole cocaine!
James: Sutured lacerations on inmates.
Scott: Performed acupuncture.
Jennifer L: When I was an au pair in London, I took care of Prime Minister Callahan’s granddaughter, Tamsin Jay.
Jonathan: Drank beer with Lightnin' Hopkins, Walter Shakey Horton, Willie Dixon & Muddy Waters at War Memorial Auditorium in Ft Lauderdale circa 1970-71.
Wanda: Was seriously electrocuted.
Laura: Got married in Bora Bora.
Leah: Volunteered for the Jerry Lewis Telethon for Muscular Dystrophy in NYC. Patty Duke hosted.
Tricia: Rode a pregnant cow.
Betsy: Was on Kids Say the Darndest Things back in Art Linkletter's day.
Shelly: Had lunch with Hank Aaron.
Cara: Sat and talked to Penny Marshall at a Barbra Streisand concert.
Leslie: Worked as an usher for the Jackie Gleason show in Miami Beach, and lived with you!
Ruth: Threatened a bear with a cast iron skillet, and swam in John Wayne’s swimming pool.
Francine: Snuck backstage at a Ritchie Haven's concert at Central Park. He autographed my tee-shirt.
Maria: I helped write a speech for the Pope.
Jay: Got lost in the Gaza Strip at midnight.
Pamela: I acted as a courier for a trip from Florida to Indonesia with stops to deliver packages in Tokyo and Singapore and back.
Stacie: Ran a Nationwide, coast to coast, marijuana distribution.
Mary Jane: Survived seven rifle shots sent in my direction!
Gillian: Walked with lions in South Africa.
Pamela G: Slept with boyfriend in a convent.
Victor: At 8 years old, I played sax with Jr. Walker and the All Stars while my Dad was on the drums.
Jeff: I impersonated Tim McGraw under hypnosis.
Lynne: Asked Dustin Hoffman directions in the NYC Broadway theater district.
Laurie: Physically built our house like Rosie the Riveter
Janet: Had a high-speed malfunction while skydiving and landed under a reserve chute in Miami-Dade Correctional Institution in Florida City.
a cento by Facebook friends
Lauren Had Jimmy Page drive me home from Thee Image (Miami).
Jennifer: I stole cocaine!
James: Sutured lacerations on inmates.
Scott: Performed acupuncture.
Jennifer L: When I was an au pair in London, I took care of Prime Minister Callahan’s granddaughter, Tamsin Jay.
Jonathan: Drank beer with Lightnin' Hopkins, Walter Shakey Horton, Willie Dixon & Muddy Waters at War Memorial Auditorium in Ft Lauderdale circa 1970-71.
Wanda: Was seriously electrocuted.
Laura: Got married in Bora Bora.
Leah: Volunteered for the Jerry Lewis Telethon for Muscular Dystrophy in NYC. Patty Duke hosted.
Tricia: Rode a pregnant cow.
Betsy: Was on Kids Say the Darndest Things back in Art Linkletter's day.
Shelly: Had lunch with Hank Aaron.
Cara: Sat and talked to Penny Marshall at a Barbra Streisand concert.
Leslie: Worked as an usher for the Jackie Gleason show in Miami Beach, and lived with you!
Ruth: Threatened a bear with a cast iron skillet, and swam in John Wayne’s swimming pool.
Francine: Snuck backstage at a Ritchie Haven's concert at Central Park. He autographed my tee-shirt.
Maria: I helped write a speech for the Pope.
Jay: Got lost in the Gaza Strip at midnight.
Pamela: I acted as a courier for a trip from Florida to Indonesia with stops to deliver packages in Tokyo and Singapore and back.
Stacie: Ran a Nationwide, coast to coast, marijuana distribution.
Mary Jane: Survived seven rifle shots sent in my direction!
Gillian: Walked with lions in South Africa.
Pamela G: Slept with boyfriend in a convent.
Victor: At 8 years old, I played sax with Jr. Walker and the All Stars while my Dad was on the drums.
Jeff: I impersonated Tim McGraw under hypnosis.
Lynne: Asked Dustin Hoffman directions in the NYC Broadway theater district.
Laurie: Physically built our house like Rosie the Riveter
Janet: Had a high-speed malfunction while skydiving and landed under a reserve chute in Miami-Dade Correctional Institution in Florida City.
SoFloPoJo & The Betsy Hotel's Poet-in-Residence
Mary Galvin
Mary Galvin
Mary Galvin lives in Lake Worth, Florida, and has been reading and writing poetry since she was a child. Her poetry has been published in Southern Women’s Review, Homestead Review, and East Coast Literary Review. In addition to being a poet, she is the author of Queer Poetics (Greenwood/Praeger, 1999), a critical study of Modernist women poets. Mary holds a Doctor of Arts from the State University of New York at Albany, and is currently a Professor of English at Palm Beach State College in Lake Worth.
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The first partnership between SoFloPoJo and The Betsy Hotel took place Sunday, February 16, 2020. The Betsy Hotel's Writer's Room offers residences for poets, writers, musicians and artists. Mary Galvin spent about a week working on her poetry and enjoying the spectacular ambience of the The Betsy.
Fans and poets from Palm Beach County came down to South Beach to listen to Galvin read new work as well as older poems. Among the poets were: Judy Ireland, Cara Nusinov, Jennifer Greenberg, Margie Schnabel, Jennifer Litt, Stephen Gibson, Holly Jaffee, and Lucia Leao. The Betsy's showrunner Sandra Rovira was our gracious host. (Pictured with Galvin above left). The Betsy is a cultural treasure in South Florida hosting poetry readings and books signings in association with SWWIM Everyday, O, Miami and The Academy of America Poets. https://www.thebetsyhotel.com/explore/about-us
Fans and poets from Palm Beach County came down to South Beach to listen to Galvin read new work as well as older poems. Among the poets were: Judy Ireland, Cara Nusinov, Jennifer Greenberg, Margie Schnabel, Jennifer Litt, Stephen Gibson, Holly Jaffee, and Lucia Leao. The Betsy's showrunner Sandra Rovira was our gracious host. (Pictured with Galvin above left). The Betsy is a cultural treasure in South Florida hosting poetry readings and books signings in association with SWWIM Everyday, O, Miami and The Academy of America Poets. https://www.thebetsyhotel.com/explore/about-us
February 2020 issue 16
What Saves Us - Very Possibly It's Poetry
by Francine Witte All photos by Mark Strodl
by Francine Witte All photos by Mark Strodl
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Martin Espada & Gabriel Ramírez
Kathy Engel & Rich Villar
George Wallace & Audience
Readers at the Lincoln Center’s David Rubinstein Atrium
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What does it mean to live in a country that won’t call you a citizen? A country at odds with its own symbol of welcome in New York Harbor? A country whose president throws rolls of paper towels in response to a hurricane? These were just some of the questions asked in the form of poetry on November 8, 2019 at the launch reading for What Saves Us published by Curbstone Books/Northwestern University Press and edited by Martin Espada.
The reading took place in Lincoln Center’s David Rubinstein Atrium to a standing room only crowd. Hosted by New York City Poet, Rich Villar, one by one, poets ascended the stage to ask difficult, searing questions, each reading their entry in the anthology. Lincoln Center seems an odd choice for a reading of dissident poetry, when you consider it is one of America’s foremost symbols of wealth and privilege. The Atrium was on 62nd street, but a mere block or two away, the well-heeled were dropping upwards of 200 dollars to listen to a three-hour opera, or watch ballet. How can the questions of a handful of poets share the same air, much less rise above it loud enough to be heard? Simple. It’s the roar. It’s the roar of poems spectacularly crafted and sharp. The lion himself, Martin Espada, bookended the reading with two such poems. Ending the reading with “Letter to my Father,” he remembers his father and the hard lessons he learned from him, “you taught me there is no God, no life after this life.” This poem was met with a well-deserved standing ovation. Denice Frohman elegantly read her poem “Puertopia,” speaks of Puerto Rico after Maria. “now/the beaches are gated & no one knows the names of the dead.” She goes on in this poem to talk about the vulture-like nature of investors who, like with Katrina, swoop in to buy the land cheap. This poem’s roar was a bit quieter, but no less heard. Another standout performance was given by George Wallace, who delivered his “I am sorry Diane Di Prima,” with his special combination of soft growl and rising incantation. This poem apologizes for the revolution we did not have, how “we cleaned things up just/enough to carry on.” A poem like this crystalizes the whole mission of the evening, to rebel in words. It says yes, we have it good, but is that a good thing? And the audience got it. The audience got it. Poets continued throughout the event poking and challenging with their words, their voices. Poems about absent fathers, and living in Section 8 housing and revolutions that didn’t happen, but should have. This beautiful space, this seat of luxury suddenly became an arena for what needs to be talked about, a symphony of grit and reflection. And, of course, the book itself only continues this. What Saves Us features the work of many notable poets, but what was clear on this chilly night in November, was how ideas and powerful words have a voice no one can silence. |
Feb 2020
