I am writing here, now, reflecting on what was there, then, with the hope of furthering that experiment by recording my experience and sharing it with you.
“Once earthenware utensils have become defiled, they remain impure and must be broken.”
“Ars Poetica was for the release of Mizrahi anger, on the cutting edge, about speaking back. Poetry wasn’t ten people in a library anymore. Ars Poetica was built on Facebook, it was like a stadium.”
“Oh yes, please save yourself for poetry,” / said a Libyan friend to my “I dont’want to be political— / I’m just alive” fb note.
[Jerusalem is] the only place I’ve lived where my contact with other writers, artists, and journalists naturally crosses back and forth from professional to mundane matters.
“The little-boy body wrapped in shrouds / is now / the single certainty.”
“She stood there, where he had seen her decades before, where perhaps she had been stationed at the dawn of time.”
“These circumstances led to all kinds of horror stories – one of which I’ll share today.”
“Go, go to Auschwitz. / Maybe you’ll get a few poems out of it. “