politicscurator, to histodons
@politicscurator@zirk.us avatar

Is this signature written by hand directly onto the book, or is it a printed version of a handwritten signature? I want it to be the former, but my colleague thinks it's the latter.

It's of Rabindranath Tagore, Bengali poet and winner of the Nobel Prize for literature

@histodons

politicscurator,
@politicscurator@zirk.us avatar

@prabirkc @histodons thank you for your reply. Somebody on here replied to say they found a copy at New York public library, so I have contacted them to see if they can send me a photograph to compare the signature. It certainly looks different to the signatures that you found...It was published in 1938 and is a memorial address to Jagadish Chandra

politicscurator,
@politicscurator@zirk.us avatar

@Vibracobra23 @histodons Thanks! I haven't but will see if I can find out lurking about in the library somewhere...

lacouvee, to poets
@lacouvee@mastodon.online avatar

I was fortunate, early in my online broadcasting life as a poet and writer, to learn that my tweets and posts and tiny ramblings, were considered as "published" by most journals. It's one of the reasons I only share published (by journals) work here. Thought this tip might help other poets and writers. @poets @writers

gemlog,
@gemlog@tilde.zone avatar

@lacouvee
another writer @imtheq
might like the tips
@poets @writers

maxrjovbi, to scifi
@maxrjovbi@mastodon.social avatar

Lyanna

During the hourly wake of the city's mourners,
I escaped
to where none of us dared venture,
with the gynandromorphophile's long shadow
over my shoulder,
I escaped
to where no other nectar but yours—the XY-code's,
was harvested by the drones…




@scifi
@poetry
@writing

https://write.as/maxrjovbi/lyanna

maxrjovbi, to scifi
@maxrjovbi@mastodon.social avatar

Freedom

We always found ourselves in Magdalena, a quaint, abandoned town nestled far in the western reaches, Lya and I, as we ventured into the Spree. I didn’t know why. And I had never really thought about it. Until now…




@scifi @poetry @writing

https://write.as/spree#freedom

maxrjovbi, to scifi
@maxrjovbi@mastodon.social avatar

Spree by Max R. J. Ovbi.

Step into the dystopian future of Spree, a genre-blending novella that throws all the storytelling rules out the window.

@FediFollows



@scifi
@poetry
@writing

https://write.as/maxrjovbi/spree

maxrjovbi, to scifi
@maxrjovbi@mastodon.social avatar

For God's Sake

In the decipherment of man's enigma,
my moves defy the algorithms,
embracing his ethereal origin,
a being misplaced
in this three-dimensional prison.

Read more…




@scifi
@poetry
@writing

https://write.as/maxrjovbi/for-gods-sake

maxrjovbi, to scifi
@maxrjovbi@mastodon.social avatar

Milky-White Rose

In the neon-lit sprawl of tomorrow, I'll hoist
the milky-white rose
of synthetic essence—its fragrant code will weave
through the data stream, perfuming
the holonight's
Pro-Rata enthymeme
with sweet binary echoes of virtual "Qui Vive."

VERNISSAGE
Holographs by Max R. J. Ovbi

Galería Cubana, New Moscow, UN City.
Sunday 30 December, 2323.
4pm—9pm

Curator: Lyanna Ovbi




@scifi @poetry

https://write.as/maxrjovbi/milky-white-rose @write_as

maxrjovbi, to scifi
@maxrjovbi@mastodon.social avatar
maxrjovbi, to scifi
@maxrjovbi@mastodon.social avatar
Tinido, to bookstodon German
@Tinido@chaos.social avatar

, 150 years ago, Lola Ridge was born in Dublin. She was to become a modernist , a leading figure in the movement in , a very prominent and campaigner für women's rights, the rights of immigrants and the poor. Lola Ridge has had a small renaissance since her biography came out 2016, but she could be read more widely.

@bookstodon

https://www.bostonreview.net/articles/terese-svoboda-lola-ridge/

maxrjovbi, to poetry
@maxrjovbi@mastodon.social avatar

Kinship

The essence of a fictive, chosen, or voluntary kinship is rooted in a profound sense of connection. This connection isn't always immediately recognized or mutual, but it's never entirely unfamiliar or one-sided...


@poetry

https://write.as/maxrjovbi/kinship via @write_as

maxrjovbi, to poetry
@maxrjovbi@mastodon.social avatar

GAMP and Transgender Pride

"I'm a GAMP, and it's not a writer's cramp that makes me wanna be amp about it—I'm a straight champ who don't need a Virgin Mary bigot or a lick-spigot vamp to question my mastodon feed, or my literary, noumenon handstamp."—Max R. J. Ovbi

@poetry

Transgender Pride Flag

ash, to bookstodon
@ash@zirk.us avatar

James Tate
(1943–2015)

@bookstodon @poetry @poet


https://books.google.co.il/books?id=aLzYEAAAQBAJ

mation on it as yet.” I noticed that he was about to cry. “Well, thanks,” I said. My stomach was sinking. I was certain to be late to work. I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to drive on, to see what was out there, and part of me wanted to turn back, though I wasn’t certain of what I would find there. So I drove on for miles and miles, the sand dunes shifting and stirring, and the occasional hawk or buzzard circling overhead. Then the road disappeared, and I was forced to stop, and looked behind me, but that road, too, was gone, blown over by sand in a few seconds. I got out of the car, glad that I had some water with me. I looked around, and it was all the same. Nothing made any sense. I tried to call Harvey at the office on my cell phone. I couldn’t believe when he answered. “Harvey, it’s Carl. 'm out here in this new place. It’s all sand, and there are no roads,” I said. “We’ll come get you,” he said. “But I don’t know where I am, I mean, I don’t even know if it exists,” I said. “Don’t be ridiculous, Carl, of course it exists. Just look around and give me something to go by,” he said. “There’s nothing here. Oh, there was a tunnel some miles back, and a policeman leaning up against his motorcycle. That’s the last thing I saw,” I said.
“Was it the old Larchmont tunnel?” he said. “I don’t know, it could have been. I was lost already,” I said. “Okay, I'm going to come get you. Just stay put,” he said. I waited and waited. And then I just started walking. I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I was restless and hoped I might find a way out. I had lost sight of my car and had no idea where I was. The sun was blinding me and I couldn’t think straight. I barely knew who I was. And, then, as if by miracle, I heard Harvey’s voice call my name. I looked around and couldn’t see him. “Carl, Carl, I'm here,” he said. And I still couldn’t see him. “We’ve fallen off. We're in the fallen off zone,” he said. “What? What does that mean?” I said. “We’ve separated. It may be temporary. It’s too soon to tell,” he said. “But where are we. We must be in some relation to something,” I said. “I think we’re parallel,” he said. “Parallel to what?” I said. “Parallel to everything that matters,” he said. “Then that’s good,” I said. I still couldn’t see him, and night was coming on. It was a parallel night, much like the other, and that was some comfort, cold comfort, as they like to say.

ferngirl, to writingcommunity
@ferngirl@det.social avatar

So I was a guest on a the other day... The episode is up and can be found here: https://rachelthompson.co/podcast/81/

In it, I read my poem "Credits: Dead Girl #3" and we talk about writing and publishing. Also mental health.
TBH I'm a little scared of listening to it, because I really don't like the sound of my own voice.
@writingcommunity

court, to histodons
@court@dreamers-guild.net avatar

in - in 1590, Maria de Zayas y Sotomayor was baptized in Madrid - not much is known of her early life, but she grew up to be a . Maria wrote what came to be known as the Spanish Decameron, the Novelas amorosas y ejemplares.
She was a and having written Friendship Betrayed, a comedy which focused on female friendships. She advocated for women's independence (and saw convents as places of women's freedom from men).
@histodons

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