March 27, 2022
It is Mother’s Day in Ireland. I am hoping the flowers arrived and that the florist remembered to write on the card, “I’ll see you next weekend.” It’s been a long three years, the pandemic and its attendant restrictions keeping us apart. As my brother – only 250 odd miles away from her – reminded me, “this thing has made a mockery of distance. I’m only a few hours drive away but I might as well be on the moon.”
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March 21, 2022
Ukrainian-American poet, Ilya Kaminsky, writes in the New York Times, of his desperation to find ways out of Ukraine for his friends – writers, poets, and translators. Many of them do not want to leave their homes, even as Russia continues to bombard their cities:
I ask how I can help. Finally, an older friend, a lifelong journalist, writes back: “Putins come and go. If you want to help, send us some poems and essays. We are putting together a literary magazine.”
In the middle of war, he is asking for poems.
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