I have this notion that if you live long enough,
there are three or four great stories that you will have in your life.

A story of a journey or a transformation.
A story of love, which will likely mean the loss of love, a story

of loss. And a story of spiritual illumination,
which, for many, will probably be the moment of death itself,

the story untellable, its beginning and middle
and end collapsing with its teller into a disappearing conclusion.

I have believed long enough in my notion
to know that it is a romantic notion, that it erodes each time

I realize that the shard and not the whole
comprises a life, the image and not the narrative. Otherwise,

there’s no reason why all I remember of the airplane
I took as a child from one country to another

is the moist towelette packet we were given with our meal,
the wonder and absurdity of it. Or that, in love,

high in a tree in the dark, and high, he and I sat in the rain-damp
branches and ate 7-Eleven donuts. Or this, this piece

of a story that isn’t even mine, that isn’t even a story
but a glance of an experience, of the friend who held the stray

dog after it was struck by a car. Not knowing whether the dog
was dead, my friend called a friend

who worked for a vet. Poke the dog in the eye, this friend said.
Because if the animal no longer has a blink reflex,

it probably means the animal is dead. Decades after
college, when you could do such a thing, I typed his name

into a search engine to find out what became of the 18-year-old
boy from the tree. Like dozens of old keys

in a drawer, so many of the wrong people with the right name.
The child dead from leukemia, with a school gym

named for him. The wrestler who had a perfectly square jaw,
like a cartoon police detective in a fedora.

When I arrived at a page that was certainly
about him, I no longer knew the face, but I recognized the life

that he had had. He had transferred to
another college, gone to film school, and become a producer

of TV documentaries. A film about fishermen, the harsh fishing
season in Alaska. A film about Abraham Lincoln

and a film about the last days of Adolf Hitler.
A film about the Sherpas who go up and down the Himalayas.
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Color photograph of the bucolic location of the Bread Loaf Translators' Conference
Apply to the Bread Loaf Translators' Conference
June 10 - June 16, 2020

Join our award-winning faculty in the heart of Vermont's Green Mountains for a week of introductory and advanced workshops along with an inspiring schedule of lectures, classes, and readings.  Financial aid is available. Rolling admissions through February 15th.  Apply now.
Cover of Chelsea Dingman's Through a Small Ghost, the first of the books reviewed
"Flesh Stretches, Ink Fades"

Nick Ripatrazone discusses new collections from Chelsea Dingman, Lisa Ampleman, Rowan Ricardo Phillips, Monica Sok, Patricia Jabbeh Wesley, & the late Ciaran Carson.  There he finds wit, affirmation, unrequited love, terror, exile and a tender curiosity in the face of death.

via THE MILLIONS
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Cover to Tristan Tzara's Approximate Man & Other Writings
What Sparks Poetry:
Jay Besemer on Tristan Tzara's “Anecdote"


"Already focusing on short, intense poems in my own writing, the eleven-line near-sonnet of 'Anecdote' made me feel that I had a path ahead of me ('from one halt to the next') and reassured me that I was not alone in my experiences of violent alienation and the sense of being wrong, badly-suited for what the whole world seemed to expect of me. In both form and content, 'Anecdote' resonated with my own needs, perspective and experiences, both interior and as a human animal in the world.
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