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Language, heart that you betrayed
one evening when the trains delayed
the rain the slandered snow in unkempt
mounds upon the drive, see in this belated
hour what a heart it was. The same pyre
which burns this day heats the undressed
trees that house the red tanagers
in winter garment, wing to wind.
Be your true self again, irrespective
of the duration of this music; Bach
in tenor clef upon the strings, your teal
eye, the courante shaking the room
with unclocked agitation. The words
you spoke were wild, flaunted
like a vain revolver, ruined
in one instant of unsaid
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In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.