My new collection of poetry is a guide to living in the dictatorship of the new American plutocracy. I was born and raised in Romania, a national-socialist client of the Soviet empire, where poetry was always a nightmare for the state, and a lifeline to the terrified citizen. I emigrated to freedom in the U.S, where the subversive powers of poetry were slowly dissolving into badly-payed entertainment for easily distracted readers. The surveillance of the market wasn't yet as deadly as that of the communist censors, but their merger seems a done deal now. In the face of this civic catastrophe poetry has to be more than eau-de-cologne to dispel the stink of army boots. This book is occasionally clear about that, but there are also poems of love and the plague, childhood scents, the warmth of other bodies, the warnings of history, and the pleasure of making things up. I was taking photographs on my daily walks when writing these poems, without meaning to use them, but then I saw that they were strangely and not so strangely connected. My mother and father were photographers in the bad old days, I think their craft shadowed me. I dedicate these works to my predecessors:
tzara fondane celan
my dear anthologies
of gifts and misfortune
birth dates emigration dates
urgent breaks between wars
what is the plural of hiatus
illusions of freedom within
where the holes of culture used to be
now overgrown by words
tzara's good timing
the radical temperament of youth
your fucking bourgeois hypocrisy must die
fondane's bad timing
longing for summer pastures
i do mistake the pastoral for culture
these are my sheep
celan in the silence
after the apocalypse
translates the murmur
of the murdered mother tongue
Click here to get the book
ISBN: 9798991139151
180 pages $19.95
Andy Revkin revkin.substack pointed out https://www.e-skop.com/images/UserFiles/Documents/Editor/bertolt-brecht-war-primer.pdf, a downloadable Bertold Brecht book, kin to mine in name, but composed during the horror of WW2. Worth as horror and art
My new morning habit is to randomly turn to a few poems in this book instead of reading the news or even Substack. Today I read a poem before looking at the title. I didn’t understand it at all.. a sea of drunk octopus….blinking manga….urban rushing mind…. After I looked up at the title “in the ginza” it all made sense.