I'm interested in tricks the mind plays. Depression is one of these tricks; it is a lens that distorts the world. My mind does many wonderful things, is capable of leaps of imagination and association, but these feats exist alongside a force that sometimes makes it difficult to be and stay alive. I've never liked the admonition against admitting "this really happened"; this is a poem about a day in which my mind shifted a little, ultimately for the better.
Leila Chatti on "The Reversal" |
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"Christopher Soto Believes in Poetry, Not Prisons"
"Soto's new collection unsettles the police state's myth that abolition is an impossibility. Defenders of the carceral state often ask: What should be done with people who have committed acts of violence if not imprison them? The poet's work drives at the hypocrisy inherent in that very question. 'This difficulty in uniformly naming violence is part of what makes an abolitionist imagination so necessary to me,' Soto explains."
via THEM |
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What Sparks Poetry: Leah Nieboer on Hillary Gravendyk's Harm
"I keep reading it because it makes me desire its inevitable cyborgs and monsters, its palpitated time-signatures, its 'pink dreaming riot.' I, too, want to get weaved in. Or—I am already weaved in, and desire a present, and future, that is livable with, and inclusive of, a chronic error-measure. Give me less of that narrative 'cure' imposed 'across an abrupt jumble of absences' and more of this speculative wildness." |
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