Torcello

Catherine Sasanov

Offshore, the Apocalypse stays contained to one island and its church.

Venice's ruler's out wedding himself to the ocean

while I'm ankle deep in the Adriatic, eyes raised to a book

unencumbered by words: A Bible that reads from East to West. Guidebooks want only

to see it as ceiling—the Basilica San Marco,

where Christ's hands open on wounds embedded with rubies, and priests

hold back the sea with brooms. I'm taking on incense,

bowing at altars dragged out of Constantinople, sloshing across marble sacked from Jerusalem.

Offshore, the sea's a bride bought with a fist full of diamonds the Doge throws into the deep—

a sign of his true and perpetual dominion.

Then why does walking into this church mean stepping into the ocean? The sea is a dog— Priests throw in bones just to placate it.

The year's nearly 2000, but the millennium already hit once

on the island Torcello, a kind of plague the Venetians contained. 999 years,

and the dead still crawl from dirt towards their radiant bodies, they still gather up

missing limbs: arms, legs, hands sharks and beasts keep regurgitating.

We do what we know— But Christ never wanted to manage resurrections in Venice.

Underdressed in the flesh from dead civilizations, he moves among us in Byzantine skin.

I'm getting close to this God worshiped only by tourists.

He picks at the wounds on his crucified body, the injury scabbed over with jewels.

The Steps of Montmartre

Alex Grant

      – after Brassai’s 1936 photograph

On the steps of Sacre Coeur    Cathedral, in that same winter       when junge leute filled Bavarian

beer-gardens, ten years before    Adorno proclaimed that there       could be no art after Auschwitz,

Brassai captured his flawless    image. Through the tunnel       formed by the parting trees,

battalions of lamp-posts advance    and retreat in the morning mizzle,       clamp chain-link handrails hard into sunwashed cobbles. In less    than a year, the corpseless heads       on Nanking’s walls will coalesce

with Guernica’s ruined heart, mal    du siècle will become Weltschmerz,       and the irresistible symmetry of a million clacking bootheels    will deafen half a continent.       The red brush never dries - adagio leads finally to fugue,    haiku to satori, and the image       fixed in silver to remembering.

No Poem today.

Instead, a beautiful and illustrative piece which looks at the qualities of Napoleon, as First Consul; before making himself Emperor.

Aix-la-Chapelle

William Wordsworth

Was it to disenchant, and to undo, That we approached the seat of Charlemagne? To sweep from many an old romantic strain That faith which no devotion may renew? Why does this puny church present to view Her feeble columns? and that scanty chair; This sword that one of our weak times might wear Objects of false pretence, or meanly true? If from a traveller's fortune I might claim A palpable memorial of that day, Then would I seek the Pyrenean Breach That Roland clove with huge two-handed sway, And to the enormous labour left his name, Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach.

Aix-la-Chapelle (now Aachen) was the capital of the Emperor Charlemagne. He died in 814 AD and was buried in Aix-la-Chapelle. His tomb was opened in the year 1000 by Emperor Otto III. It has since disappeared. The "Pyrenean Breach" is the valley of Ronscesvalles where Charlemagne's warrior Roland fought his heroic rearguard action. His famous sword was called Durandel.

In Memoriam: Martin Luther King, Jr.

June Jordan

I

honey people murder mercy U.S.A. the milkland turn to monsters teach to kill to violate pull down destroy the weakly freedom growing fruit from being born

America

tomorrow yesterday rip rape exacerbate despoil disfigure crazy running threat the deadly thrall appall belief dispel the wildlife burn the breast the onward tongue the outward hand deform the normal rainy riot sunshine shelter wreck of darkness derogate delimit blank explode deprive assassinate and batten up like bullets fatten up the raving greed reactivate a springtime terrorizing

death by men by more than you or I can

STOP

II

They sleep who know a regulated place or pulse or tide or changing sky according to some universal stage direction obvious like shorewashed shells

we share an afternoon of mourning in between no next predictable except for wild reversal hearse rehearsal bleach the blacklong lunging ritual of fright insanity and more deplorable abortion more and more

pont du gard

cirtualillusuon

Moving sonorously, the whiteness of rivers, Submerged in the banks and pillars of the Pont du Gard, March therein the tawny stones to Uzes and Nimes, Arch through the fields and meadows of Avignon, Through fields of gold and lengthening shadows, To consummate in the ivory baths and marble fountains, Through the parapets of Nemausus stretching to the dawn. Paved in stone that the eyes of streets trembling watched The divine destruction and resurrection of man, Day by day, by night, year after year, Until the eyes of stone were worn through.

Today’s poem: 

The Fall of Rome

by WH Auden

Young Men of Sidon (400 A.D.)

CP Cavafy

The actor they had brought in to entertain them also recited a few choice epigrams.

The room opened out on the garden, and a delicate odour of flowers mingled with the scent of the five perfumed young Sidonians.

There were readings from Meleager, Krinagoras, Rhianos. But when the actor recited “Here lies Aeschylus, the Athenian, son of Euphorion” (stressing maybe more that he should have “his renowned valour” and “sacred Marathonian grove”), a vivacious young man, mad about literature, suddenly jumped up and said:

“I don’t like that quatrain at all. Sentiments of that kind seem somehow weak. Give, I say, all your strength to your work, make it your total concern. And don’t forget your work even in times of trial or when you near your end. This is what I expect, what I demand of you— and not that you completely dismiss from your mind the magnificent art of your tragedies— your Agamemnon, your marvelous Prometheus, your representations of Orestes and Cassandra, your Seven Against Thebes—to set down for your memorial merely that as an ordinary soldier, one of the herd, you too fought against Datis and Artaphernis.”

The Cats of Old San Juan

David M. de León

The cats of Old San Juan are not native though they were born here. They are not native though being native is not a measure of belonging. The cats are here because of the rats. The rats are here because of the Americans. The Americans were here because of the Spanish. The Spanish were here because fuck the Spanish. *

The colony of cats has been on the Paseo del Morro since the 1950s. The cats are fed and protected. The cats are loved, more or less. The cats are photographed. *

The Paseo del Morro is a rocky promenade by the sea. The Paseo passes under the walls of Old San Juan. The walls are there because of the Spanish. The Spanish were there because of Ponce de León (no relation). Ponce de León was there because of Cristóbal Colón. Colón was there because fuck Colón. *

In 2004 the Paseo del Morro was renovated to be more amenable to tourists and joggers. The cats were not considered tourists though they are not native. The cats were getting in the way of the joggers. *

The city was going to euthanize the cats. The city was going to euthanize the cats. But the cats are loved. The cats are photographed. *

Some locals started a project to save the cats. They called the project Save-a-Gato. Save-a-Gato is neither English nor Spanish. *

Save-a-Gato manages the colony of cats. They manage the colony through a strategy of TNR. TNR stands for “trap, neuter, release.” This is considered humane. It was the alternative to being euthanized. Being euthanized was also considered humane. *

“Humane” is from Latin. It means “to act like a human.” *

Save-a-Gato has been managing the colony since 2004. Save-a-Gato is volunteer-based. You can donate. You can adopt a cat from Old San Juan today. Visit their Facebook page. *

Puerto Rico is managed by the US. *

Clarence Gamble, of the Proctor and Gamble family, set up twenty-two birth control clinics on the island in the 1930s. These clinics practiced sterilization. The sterilizations were either voluntary or not. Clarence Gamble was a eugenicist. Clarence Gamble wanted to breed out poor people. Puerto Ricans are a poor people. *

In the 1950s Clarence Gamble connected an American named Gregory Pincus with Puerto Rican women. These women were not told they were participating in an experimental drug trial. Pincus came to test birth control, which was illegal on the mainland. The women were given ten times the modern dose of progesterone. 17% experienced serious side effects. At least three women died. The deaths were not investigated. *

By the 1960s almost 34% of Puerto Rican women were sterilized. This was considered humane. *

My grandmother left Puerto Rico in the 1950s. Her family left because they were poor, not because they were being sterilized. They left because they knew they were poor, not because they knew they were being sterilized. *

Her name is Alicia Sanchez. She was strong and stubborn and cruel. She taught me how to swear in Spanish. I loved her very much. She doesn’t remember me now. *

The nursing home in Tampa tells us she is known for being childish. Every now and then she bites someone. *

People say there are more Puerto Ricans on the mainland than are on Puerto Rico. This is true. It is also true that there are more Puerto Ricans that do not exist than do exist. *

The native taíno people were subjugated in one of the most successful genocides in recorded history. Some estimate that three million were killed between 1492 and 1518. In 1518 came smallpox. *

Puerto Ricans are almost theoretical. *

Taíno is not what the taíno people called themselves. Taíno is what the Spanish called them. If you want to know what the taíno called themselves, just ask. *

There is a building at 51-57 Calle San José. It’s on a hill. It’s very famous. There’s a Puerto Rican flag painted on the door (“la puerta de la bandera”). You can buy cheap paintings of it at souvenir shops. *

In 2016 the flag was painted black. The flag was painted black in protest of PROMESA. PROMESA stands for the Puerto Rico Oversight, Management, and Economic Stability Act. This is neither English nor Spanish. *

PROMESA is a forced austerity act imposed by the US federal government. It hands over management of Puerto Rico to the banks. The banks are international. *

Fuck PROMESA. *

51-57 Calle San José is abandoned. It’s been abandoned so long there is a tree growing through the roof. The tree starts in the foyer and opens through the rafters. It’s three stories tall. *

La puerta de la bandera is locked with rusty chain. You can peer through the crack between the doors. Inside is darkness. Inside are cats. *

The cats do not belong there but belonging is not a measure of belonging.

Today's Flickr photo with the most hits: a real throwback. Here's the main street of Leadville, CO. Peter and I stayed here when we drove from Chicago to San Francisco, way back in 2008. I revisited with Adam (hiking in Colorado) in September, 2022.

In The Whistling Rooms

Şükrü Erbaş

So not to leave you alone even from your grave I rush back home.

In the whistling rooms I talk I talk I talk.

I came from afar, morning dew on my lips Saying don’t be childish you draw back your lips.

Then I raise my eyes, the window’s not there Dead children like eye lashes lined up.

Can you grow ashamed of your sorrow I’m poisoned by the tears I’ve spilled.

it’s too late for us you said once, how will all these children live in this country, the womb of death.

In a village near Antakya, our hearts full of love Surrounded by such blessings who would think of death.

Come, let us go down to the sea In her arms the blue will rock our fears to sleep.

I’m a loneliness for two before your photos One, the one you take with you, the other, the one you leave.

In the Lake Region

Tomas Venclova (translator, Ellen Hinsey)

When you open the door, everything falls into place— the little ferry by the wharf, fir trees and thujas. An old woman, feeding ducks, seems as old as Leni Riefenstahl. At the base of the hill, chestnut trees, not yet in full bloom, are younger—but probably as old as her films. All is wet and bright. A hedgehog or God-knows-whose-soul is rummaging in last year's leaves. Dead water and living water fill the plain. The twins Celsius and Fahrenheit are predicting spring weather—while a shadow obscures the past (just like the present). The first serene weeks scour the bridges in a peaceful corner of Europe between Wannsee and Potsdam—where much has happened, but, probably, nothing more will. For days we have been watching a ragged crow—in the garden, sometimes on the roof. The ancients would have said her stubbornness augurs something. Emerging from the wood's depths, she lights on one antenna crossbar then another, her surface bright as mercury in a thermometer's glass. But these are fever marks we are incapable of understanding. The beginning of agony? The past does not enlighten us—but still, it attempts to say something. Perhaps the crow knows more about us and about history's dirt than we do ourselves. Of what does she want to remind us? Of the black photos, the black headphones of radio operators, black signatures under documents, of the unarmed with their frozen pupils—of the prisoner's boot or the trunk of the refugee? Probably not. We will remember this anyway, though it won't make us any wiser. The bird signifies only stoicism and patience. If you ask for them, your request will be granted.

Ghazal: Woman at the Well

Carolyne Wright

In this late season, who is the woman at the well drawing water, reflecting on the woman at the well?

Millennial fissures in the well-rim, weed-choked cracks where brackish water rises for the woman at the well.

At the bottom of the well shaft, the sky’s reflective eye opens, closes on the shadow of the woman at the well.

Where are the rains of bygone eras? Preterite weather yields more rusted bucketsful for the woman at the well.

Ancestral well of Jacob, where a weary traveller rests, where Jesus asks for water from the woman at the well.

Oh plane trees of Samaria, in whose shade a stranger speaks of artesian fault lines to the woman at the well!

Chaldean fountains, oases of date palms and minarets— how they flourish in the dreams of the woman at the well!

Mirages of marble, pomegranate flowers, cedars of Baalbek shimmer in the sight of the woman at the well.

On the night of destiny, the angel Gabriel descends and hovers by the footprints of the woman at the well.

Jacob’s ladder leans against the door of heaven— on the bottom rung, the woman at the well.

Women of Sychar, women of Shechem! Draw aside your veils, reveal the features of the woman at the well.

Wise ones, why do you weep? Do you fear your fate tips a mirror toward the woman at the well?

Oh artisan of sorrow, mystery’s precision, sit down beside your sister, second self, the woman at the well.

In memoriam Agha Shahid Ali

Bronzes

Carl Sandburg

I The bronze General Grant riding a bronze horse in Lincoln Park Shrivels in the sun by day when the motor cars whirr by in long processions going somewhere to keep appointments for dinner and matineés and buying and selling Though in the dusk and nightfall when high waves are piling On the slabs of the promenade along the lake shore near by I have seen the general dare the combers come closer And make to ride his bronze horse out into the hoofs and guns of the storm.

II I cross Lincoln Park on a winter night when the snow is falling. Lincoln in bronze stands among the white lines of snow, his bronze forehead meeting soft echoes of the newsies crying forty thousand men are dead along the Yser, his bronze ears listening to the mumbled roar of the city at his bronze feet. A lithe Indian on a bronze pony, Shakespeare seated with long legs in bronze, Garibaldi in a bronze cape, they hold places in the cold, lonely snow to-night on their pedestals and so they will hold them past midnight and into the dawn.

Today's Flickr photo with the most hits was taken in Prague Castle

- Goldsmith's workshop in golden lane

Charleston

Afaa M. Weaver

In a fountain at the harbour, children wash themselves in water spraying in the heat. They count themselves dark and light. The aircraft carrier sits in the moist nothing of salt water, tons of tons weighing in the soft splash. We count our wishes, to be free, to be at ease, to be in abundance. Above us spirits whirl in a thunderhead.

On steps across from the slave mart, I peel an orange for the slow rip of its flesh in my thumb, the sweet dotting of my nose with its juice. I suck the threads of it, gaze at the wooden doors now closed, at the empty space inside with iron hooks. I can see the white folks' heads checking available cash in front of naked Africans chained, bereaved, and listening to a cruelty yet to be born. I can smell the congregation of odours, humans fresh from slave ships or working in fields, and humans fresh from beds of fine linen, sleeping with fingers in Bibles and prayers.

This is not a petty thing because we have a rental car with an air conditioner, a tape player, and various cushions. We have come far to do this, to gaze out from the banks of this plantation river to the rice fields, to walk in Charleston. I keep the heat from threatening my life, and I wonder if I could have survived slavery to be old, if being old is all there is to live to be. I walk around the slave quarters and hear African languages speaking in magnolias.

Today's poem:

The Sarcophagi in Rome

Don Paterson