A procession begins in the blue- black gratitude between worlds, & the Rebirth Brass Band marches out of what little light is left among the magnolia blooms. Step here, & one steps off the edge of the world. Step there, one enters the unholy hour where one face bleeds into another as a horse-drawn buggy rolls out of the last century, & the red-eyed seventeen-year locust grows deeper into the old, hushed soil. Lean this way blue insinuation takes over the body. Step here, & one’s shadow stops digging its grave to gaze up at the evening star. Or, at this moment, less than a half step between day & night, birdhouses stand like totems against the sky. A flicker of wings & eyes, mockingbirds arrive with stolen songs & cries, their unspeakable lies & omens as if they are some minor god’s only true instrument & broken way onstage in the indigo air. They come with uh-huh & yeah, a few human words, to white boxes on twelve-foot poles, to where each round door-hole is a way in & a way out of oblivion.
"Uighur Poets on Repression and Exile" "Yet, as China silences Uighur poets’ voices in Xinjiang, Uighur poets and artists in the diaspora have spoken up, bearing eloquent witness to the catastrophe in their homeland. Some under their own names and others using pseudonyms, these writers and artists...are giving expression to the pain, as well as the resilience, of their people." via NYR DAILY
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What Sparks Poetry: Jennifer Atkinson on "Local History" The island I called Hag Island in this poem isn’t, after the ten or so years since I wrote 'Local History,' an island anymore, not even at full high tide. What was island has become something more like a hump in the marsh. The salt brook that runs through has shallowed out and shifted. Everyday erosion and hurricane winds will do that."
