This poem arrived as I was stuck in traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge. It was the eve of the 2016 election. I'd just heard Tongo Eisen-Martin read. I was rereading Walter Benjamin and thinking about the transformative forces of history, their repetitions and wreckage. "Those camps" refers to the prisons that indefinitely detained the Japanese American community during WWII. The poem arrived line-by-line; I did my best to memorize it as it was composing itself (couldn’t write anything down). This is a good way to pass the time when stuck in traffic.
Brynn Saito on "Theses on the Philosophy of History" |
|
In His Poetry, José Olivarez Speaks to Every Immigrant Child
"Storytelling is not simply a pastime or a craft for Olivarez, but an integral part of his identity as a Mexican American writer. Rooted in the rich tradition of communal storytelling he inherited, his vivid and evocative poetry brings to life the voices and stories of a vibrant and dynamic community built on a foundation of shared history and identity."
via MITÚ |
|
|
What Sparks Poetry:
Dong Li on Evan S. Connell's Notes From a Bottle Found on the Beach at Carmel
"Vestigial shards of old legend and lore dart in and out of vertiginous fragments of human folly and futility, now like lightning on a clear day, now like fireflies on a talkative night. The 'I' slyly travails through historical significance and triviality until the tribulations of fear, faith, and ferocity surface in a dizzying dream state, hauling history into the prophetic present, where associative meanings are distilled into a crude and cruel illumination." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
