Whenever I read "Winter Recipes for the Collective (2021)" I would cry a little at the poems because they made me feel a closeness to the end of life journey. Some nights I would read them as bedtime stories because they were so comforting.
Today I learned that the poet who wrote it, Louise Glück, died in October. I hope that her passing was as gentle as her last book.
Today in Writing History December 15, 1905: The Pushkin House was established in Saint Petersburg, Russia, to preserve the cultural heritage of Alexander Pushkin, (6/6/1799–2/10/1837). Pushkin was a Russian poet, playwright, and novelist of the Romantic era. He was influenced by Enlightenment writers and thinkers, like Diderot and Voltaire. He spoke out in support of social reform, and wrote poems, like “Ode to Liberty,” leading to the government exiling him from the capital. In 1920 the Pushkin House was renamed the Institute of New Russian Literature, with the main objective of preparing authoritative "academic" editions of works by Pushkin, Turgenev, Dostoevsky, and others.
There's still time to nominate haiku for the Touchstone Award. You may submit 1 of your own haiku and 1 by another poet. It's free! Details and submission form 👇🏽
A pleasant surprise! I just found out that one of the haiku I submitted for the annual contest of the Haiku International Association has received an 'honorable mention'. 😃
We aim for self-knowledge, to have some level of self-assuredness. A degree of certainty. But is that more of a hindrance than an aid? When we tie ourselves to static identities, what happens when we confront the reality of the way things change? When like everything else we cease to be the same? We are an event rather than a name.
Everything is made of small things. Electrons. Atoms. Nuts. Bolts. Screws. Prayer beads. Everything carries bits of something else. Nothing arrives fully formed. Everything starts as something other, becomes one thing and then another. Shifts. Changes, and then becomes something different yet again.