To start, let us thank Nachoem Wijnberg for doing something rare in poetry. He admits openly what all poets know of themselves: that they are talentless, and their success unearned.
The other day a new video emerged from Ukraine of shelling in an apartment project—reporters and grandmothers dash for cover as large, pressure-sucking booms roar through the cement canyon of the c
“the kind of poetry that can make a reader wince with delight.”
In her 11th poetry collection, Bestiary Dark, Marianne Boruch goes back to Pliny the Elder, who asked, “The world, is it finite?” The answer is both no and yes.
Few men are as dead as Osip Mandelstam.
“. . . revelatory, a testament to Di Donato’s ability to deconstruct the complex weavings and machinations of the human heart.”
Have you ever wondered why books of poetry, unless they span the whole of a writer’s life and work, are so slim?