Stories of life
“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” — Anais Nin
Recently I met a man who told me he wanted to write his life story. He is just over 50 (so: old enough), and has done some unusual things in several different places (so: interesting enough), and I could only encourage him. Still, he doubts his ability as a writer. Won’t it be too much effort? Does he have the necessary discipline? And why should anybody want to read what he writes?
I reassured him that many authors suffer from self-doubt, and it’s even supposed to be salutary, a kind of literary first-night nerves that makes performances all the better. He is still hovering between desire to record his life and fear of looking vain, silly, or irrelevant. With taste, fashion and other forms of expression changing so fast, who can be sure that you matter at all nowadays?
FAREWELL NELSON MANDELA
One person who could be sure his life story would be written many times over was Nelson Mandela, who died last week at the age of 95. It is hard to think of any other person of our times whose passing has affected so many people so profoundly. Some of us will always remember the moment we heard the news of his death and the emotions it evoked, even though it was expected. For some members of my family Mandela represented a time when world history touched our own. As exile South Africans in London we spent the years of his imprisonment supporting the anti-apartheid movement and feeling ashamed for being “white”. We never imagined that he would die a national and world hero in a South Africa governed by its indigenous peoples. Mandela’s story as a brave freedom fighter (don’t forget that part!) and a wise, peacemaking politician carries in tow all the stories of people affected by his life and deeds. Each time his story is retold, it recalls all those other people’s stories and helps in making their lives feel worth while.
When my parents emigrated to London from South Africa in 1961 with my sisters and myself, I was a young girl. I never forgot the shame of coming from racist South Africa, or the difficulty of adapting to a new climate and culture in the UK and Europe. More than 20 years later I wrote an account from memory of the time of emigration and the ocean crossing to the Northern hemisphere. The story forms the core of a novel about three generations of a family defined by migration between continents.
The book is available from Kindle:
and at many Amazon national sites.
Now, more than 50 years since that emigration, the full impact of the history of colonialist South Africa is just beginning to be understood. The moral and social fabric of anti-Vietnam-war, anti-Stalinism and anti-apartheid that guided my political upbringing seemed to unravel in the mid-90s. In South Africa, what survives (despite bad present conditions) is not just Mandela’s precious legacy but that of a generation of extraordinary writers, poets and playwrights, including Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, J. M. Coetzee, Breyten Breytenbach, and Andre Brink. All of them wrote about life with an intense degree of social commitment. They wanted to convey something of the world (wide and narrow) that they lived in.
One day we may be able to understand how a vast country with a small population at the very bottom tip of a continent should produce a statesman of Mandela’s stature alongside so many writers of global importance, all in the same historical era. For now, we can be truly grateful, and appreciate the legends and endowments of the great sons and daughters of South Africa.
… AND NOW — LOVE ‘EM & LEAVE ‘EM
This heading could have been the motto of US American writer, poet, and professional expat, Eddie Woods, and I don’t think he’ll mind my saying so. Eddie is known for speaking his mind, sometimes at length, and he writes like he speaks. As I remarked to the friend who is contemplating writing his memoirs, writing how you speak is one of the hardest skills to master. Eddie does it with bravour in his recently published memoir, “Tennessee Williams in Bangkok”, set in the early 1970s.
More accurately, this is how-Eddie-Woods-met-Tennessee-Williams-in-Bangkok and hung out with him, mainly in the gay scene where Eddie made out with boys dressed as girls, and T. Williams the world-famous playwright (known as ‘Tom’ to close friends and drinking partners) followed his preference for boys dressed as boys. While both followed their desires in most other respects as well.
I enjoyed every word of this hilarious, often breathless romp among the rumps, especially Eddie’s ability to mention paid work as an aside before going on to luscious detail about the really important things in life, such as good Chinese food, prostitutes with heart, and getting laid as often and as long as possible.
This book is eminently quotable but I’ll spare myself the trouble of hunting out morsels by referring you (see below) to two superb reviews by fellow writers and literary sages,
and Richard Livermore:
This review first appeared in issue #16 of Ol’ Chanty magazine:
The text of “Tennessee Williams in Bangkok” is garnished with period photos, some from Eddie’s relics, some archive pics, that make the 1970s look very far away. Interesting to see that Eddie’s eagle-eyed look (What’s up? I’m not going to miss anything!) hasn’t changed in all these years.
And now I’ll risk Eddie’s wrath by stealing his last line, a dream of a quote from T. Williams.
“Everybody is nobody until you love them… “
Tennessee Williams, The Rose Tattoo
Sheer genius. Sigh. It glides along and goes down so smoothly, it could be a line from Cole Porter sung by Frank Sinatra. That’s the trick of great writing — making it look easy.
NOIR ce soir!
Hot on the heels of the news that the NOIR Erasure Anthology trumpeted recently on this site (scroll down for more) is now available for HOLIDAY PURCHASE on Amazon.com (shhh, we know it’s not quite culture-politically correct, but we authors want to make a living somehow, too)… anyway, quite coincidentally I stumbled across a noir ghostwriting novel. This might be just the thing for my friend who is not sure if he is up to the task of writing his own biography. I shall now recommend it to him and to all you other readers out there:
L.A. SLEEPERS – a noir novel in instalments by Dakota Donovan
The brilliant idea behind this is the ghostwriter as sleuth. With a perfect pseudonym: Dakota Donovan. Doesn’t that just sound off-the-peg? The tale is told as a serial in daily instalments (can Dakota keep up the gruelling pace? Is a daily deadline too much for a ghostwriter with her nose to the Grub Street grindstone?) — such are the hazardous conditions of production of this ever growing masterpiece that is crying out to be discovered, scripted and serialised by TV moguls.
Today (8 December 2013) we have already reached the 13th instalment (Chapter 3.4).
This latest instalment dives right in with the muscular, pithy noir style. Another literary effect that looks easy, but is very hard to get right.
‘Dakota jumped to her feet and told Joyce, “I’ve got to go.” Yes, she had to get home and retrieve Milton’s confidential file from the trunk of her car.’
As a subscriber to Dakota Donovan’s daily pen product, I can look forward to hours of happy reading through the holiday season and well into 2014.
Books are like life stories. Whether you’re a writer or a reader, they can give you a sense of purpose and continuity. Told well, they can take you to heaven. Thanks, writer friends for all the pleasure you give. Thanks, all you future life story writers. Thanks, Nelson Mandela, for making this one life seem more precious.
Photos (some) & text © Karen Margolis 2013
Posted 8 December 2013
Jazz & poetry & all that
Once in a while comes a day of such overwhelming beauty and pleasure that I abandon all resolves and good intentions and surrender completely to the joy of poetry. Or joys, in this case. A clerihew orgy is in full swing on Facebook, and two new poems from my latest series, Smiles Wide Open, wrote themselves into existence before I had finished my first coffeepot of the day.
Later I was rewarded from heaven with a spectacular sunset over the Mediterranean. The right sky- and seascape for the rare conjunction of Thanksgiving and Chanukah. Or whatever else you like to attribute natural wonders to. Anyway, yet another occasion when I was glad to have my camera in my bag. And on that theme, in tune with the poems, I’ve slipped in a couple of shots from my landing in Nice.
Low sun, dazzling.
I looked at you
and thought jazz
© Karen Margolis 2013
I met a man who took me to the mountains
I met a man who took me to the mountains
young we were and free in summer
shadowed by clouds
we climbed an alpine glacier
slippery yet I had no fear of sliding
he knew his ground & made me feel safe
year after year I dreamed he came back
in a blue beetle car wearing a tan blouson
(I can smell & stroke the chamois
as I sit beside him)
and he drives me to the mountains again
after reunion he put a tag on us
not safe for work or playtime, a warning
discomfort gnawed me to the bones
hard casing grew around my passion
nonchalance a brittle shell
covering soft fruits of desire
love awakens freshly in the present setting
a sea view, mountains at my back
days of dreaming in between:
a willing slave for licking service
to nibble at my naked feet
polish my french windows
share truite aux amandes
crêpes flambées & domestic chores
this is how we learn to play with ageing —
you can’t catch up
with what you never had
I’m nobody’s recipe
for the cookies they didn’t get as a child
we all make our own compromises
each different even with the lights down
Don’t confuse me with the callgirl next door
or look on my laptop for your dating sites
there’s always someone else
always somebody out there – where?
waiting. Maybe for another you
in another world. (I didn’t say the word better)
Seasonal decorations are going up
in shopping streets. The sun
pierces their flimsiness
making them look useless, exposing
their ugliness. At night, lights
salvage the magical illusion.
Being here still is a daily surprise.
Let’s make it stay. If you wish
you can erase your past.
I’m saving mine as a future possibility.
Warm late November sunshine,
the gold pink glow of a sunset
over deep blue waters where fishing boats bob
the evening star all alone
sights hard won. Being able at last
to say what I want
is a gift too precious to waste.
© Karen Margolis 2013
Poems & photos © Karen Margolis 2013
All rights reserved.
Posted 28 November 2013
NOIR is out!
Eagerly awaited, now available ― NOIR is here just in time for the gifting season.
40 writers, including myself, have contributed erasure poems culled from the pages of noir novels.
Erasure is a fascinating technique, a blend of physical involvement with the text, elementary destruction of the printed word and reader empowerment. After all the tampering and trouble (and it’s no easy job!) the result is a metamorphosis or re-formation of the original author’s intention.
Erasure is a kind of harmless heresy, a desecration without damage. It’s all done on copies, leaving the original book intact. A new kind of creative game that any reader can play, juggling with notions of meaning and text structure.
Here’s a preview from the NOIR anthology of the note I wrote to accompany my erasure poem:
“Erasure poetry – fine. Noir? – well, not so easy if you happen to live in Berlin, Germany, a city where classic genre 20th-century books in English aren’t exactly paving the sidewalks.
“A skim internet search came up with predictable hits for Chandler, Hammett, and their kind. Meanwhile I was hooked on the theme and started following up all kinds of clues… until finally a reference to the landmark Truffaut noir film from 1968 led me to the author William Irish —alias Cornell Woolrich— and his great noir novel from 1940, The Bride Wore Black. (…)”
Suspense is the name of this game. You’ll have to buy the collection to read the rest.
Keen already to get your copy of the NOIR erasure poetry anthology? You can order it by mail:
NOIR Anthology from Silver Birch Press, Los Angeles, Ca.
Description: 120-pages, 5.5×8.5, $12 retail
ALL PRICES INCLUDE SHIPPING AND TAX FOR U.S. ORDERS; OVERSEAS ORDERS REQUIRE SEPARATE QUOTE.
If you would like copies of the anthology in time for Christmas, please place your order by Wednesday, Nov. 27th. Also available soon from Amazon.com
Write directly to: email@example.com
And get that NOIR feeling on those dark wintry afternoons…
Text & photos (except NOIR cover) © Karen Margolis 2013
Posted 20 November 2013
Underground literature to go
Book-O-Mat at Berlin-Alexanderplatz
Rumours circulating for some time in Berlin can now be confirmed as truth. There is a Book-O-Mat deep in the very heart of the city, in the maze of tunnels that house the platforms and tracks of underground line U8 at Alexanderplatz station.
The big yellow automat with its colourful brain food offers “Reading to go” - 25 paperback titles ranging from popular children’s and young adult books and mass bestseller novels to self-help books, Berlin guides and even, with an eye to the international trade, English-language books. Prices run from one to ten euros.
The machine is a joint venture between Berlin’s public transport authority and a vending firm that offers the usual fizzy drinks and snacks in automats on the city’s underground (U-Bahn) system. Right now it’s a pilot project: if it’s successful, more U-Bahn stations will be blessed with books to go.
The idea of slot machine literature has been around for a while in Germany, and some publishers have set up their own vending schemes for booklets or small publications. (*See below for a recent summary on the blog Love German Books, my reliable informant on everything-German-and literary-that-matters nowadays.) But this commercial venture seems a novelty, and Alexanderplatz is just the right place to start. Bordering the core of old Berlin, it’s a great site of German literary and social history, and the stuff of legend and thrillers, particularly in the 20th century. It was a setting for dramas of the two world wars, the Weimar republic and the Nazi era. In the Cold War it lay in communist East Berlin and its bleak windy expanse became a synonym of socialist planning and punk rebellion above ground, while underground along the lines running through Alexanderplatz the ghost stations shut down after the building of the Berlin Wall were constant reminders of the inner-German border.
Today, most of the people waiting for trains on the platform of Line 8, where the Book-O-Mat stands, don’t remember the trains rushing without ever stopping through dead stations preserved in their prewar state with original tiled walls and old nameplates, like a series of Miss Havishams in their yellowing bridal tiles.
Fortunately for these stations, and for the city they serve, the groom of change came to liberate them from their curious slumber and they could be reunited with their past and future network. And receive automats to nourish the waiting passengers. Books to go at Alexanderplatz – who could have dreamed of this 25 years ago?
German readers can get more background on the Book-O-Mat here:
* German literary scene specialist and blogger Katy Derbyshire looks at some other imaginative book vending schemes in Germany:
Multimedia footnote: If you think the Book-O-Mat is cool, take a minute and a half to watch this vimeo of a truly brilliant variation:
Bibliomat on Vimeo
The Biblio-Mat is a random book dispenser built by Craig Small for The Monkey’s Paw, an idiosyncratic antiquarian bookshop in Toronto. For the rest of the story (and it’s really worth it!), just follow this link — and enjoy:
Text & photos: © Karen Margolis 2013
Posted 17 November 2013
Revamped capital magazine
Always good, now even better: parisiana.com, the lit mag with style and grace, has a new look worth following.
Latest issue has G. Legman on faking Henry Miller, and archives with plentiful poetry and prose by Eddie Woods, bart plantenga, Nina Zivancevic, Richard Jurgens, Einar Moos and others. And love poems by me, including Goddesses and Doormats and The Red Shoes.
Special credits for the relaunch to Einar Moos & Eddie Woods.
posted 11 November 2013
Please don’t forget: FREE PUSSY RIOT!!!
Jailed Pussy Riot member Nadia Tolokonnikova has been missing without trace for several weeks inside Russia’s vast prison system. Nadia, serving a two-year sentence for a punk performance with the band Pussy Riot in a Moscow cathedral in February 2012, protested against prison conditions and went on hunger strike earlier this year. Women’s groups, Amnesty International and other human rights organisations are calling for information on Nadia’s whereabouts and her immediate release as well as the release of Maria Alyochina, the other convicted Pussy Riot member still in jail.
Please do what you can to help free Nadia and Maria. Their speedy release could help many other prisoners in Russia’s 21st century gulag.
Text: Karen Margolis
posted 8 November 2013
Chinese bargain made in Germany and USA
The Land of the Five Flavors – a cultural history of Chinese cuisine
by Thomas O. Höllmann
translated from the German by Karen Margolis
This large-format book, richly illustrated and full of fascinating things you never knew about Chinese cooking, food history and culture is now available directly from the publisher at a pre-publication discount of 30%.
Simply order on the Columbia University Press page for the book and type in the promo code LANHOL to get your bargain. Here’s the link:
posted 7 November 2013
November, month of shadows and mourning, season of uprisings, revolutions and destruction. If you’re into commemoration, this is the time for you. The last leaves are clinging on, the migrant birds are mostly gone. It used to be a time of dread until I decided to enjoy it.
Let’s start with the simple pleasures. Wherever you are, whatever the season, you can cuddle up with a book, or dream with a film. In November I often return to old favourites. This November whenever I have a spare moment I’ll be happily occupied with finishing off some cherished writing and translation.
For a start, there’s the translation of Heinrich Heine’s masterpiece, Deutschland – Ein Wintermärchen / Germany – A Winter’s Tale that was due a while back and still needs polishing. Heine actually began his remarkable travels through his home country in the month of November in the year 1843. His epic road poem written the following year begins with a Prologue in which he bids farewell to Paris, his adopted city, and indicates his hopes and fears about returning to Germany after a 13-year-absence.
Here’s the beginning of the first chapter:
In the sad month of November
The days were darkening already,
The wind was stripping leaves from trees
As I crossed over to Germany
When I arrived at the border
My heart began to race;
I even felt a hint of tears
When I finally reached the place
And as I heard the German tongue
I felt strangely full of cheer,
As if my heart were bleeding
But pleasantly, not in fear
A girl was singing with a harp
She sang with true devotion,
Her voice was false but I was deeply
Moved by her emotion
She sang of love and love’s torment,
Self-sacrifice and sweet reunion
In the better place up in the sky
Where sorrows are unknown
She sang of earthly troubles,
Of joys too quickly over,
In the realm where souls are cleansed
And bathe gloriously forever
She sang the old song of renunciation
The lullaby of the firmament
That soothes the poor and simple folk
When they moan in discontent
I know the words, I know the tune
I know the gentlemen authors,
I know they drank wine secretly
And publicly preached water
Oh friends, I’m going to write for you —
A new song and a better one
Here and now on earth we want
To build the heavenly kingdom
We want happiness here on earth
We won’t suffer any longer
The fruits of workers’ hands shall not fill
The bellies of greedy spongers.
There’s corn enough for bread here
For the whole human race to eat
And roses, myrrh, desire and beauty,
And no lack of sugar peas
Yes, sugar peas for one and all
As soon as the ripe pods burst! —
The sky above we can happily leave
To angels and sparrows at first
And if we grow wings when we die,
We’ll visit you up in heaven
And sit down to a cup of tea
With holy cakes and muffins
A new song, a better song!
With sounds of violin and flute!
The sad lament is over, the bells
That toll for the dead are mute
The virgin Europa is now betrothed
To freedom, true spirit of bliss
They lie entwined in each other’s arms
Pleasuring in their first kiss
Though they lack priestly blessing
The marriage is valid yet —
Long live the bride and bridegroom
And the children they beget!
A wedding ditty is my song,
The better song, the new creation!
The stars that rise in my soul now
Shine out in consecration
Joyous stars, they glow so wildly
Dissolving in flame and flurry —
I feel a wondrous inner strength,
I could almost split an oak tree!
Since I set foot on German soil,
Magic juices flow in my veins —
The giant has touched his mother once more
And can feel his power again.
Translation © Karen Margolis 2013
Note: This translation is a work in progress. Comments, questions and improvements will be appreciated.
For German readers, here’s the original.
Im traurigen Monat November war’s,
Die Tage wurden trüber,
Der Wind riß von den Bäumen das Laub,
Da reist ich nach Deutschland hinüber.
Und als ich an die Grenze kam,
Da fühlt ich ein stärkeres Klopfen
In meiner Brust, ich glaube sogar
Die Augen begannen zu tropfen.
Und als ich die deutsche Sprache vernahm,
Da ward mir seltsam zumute;
Ich meinte nicht anders, als ob das Herz
Recht angenehm verblute.
Ein kleines Harfenmädchen sang.
Sie sang mit wahrem Gefühle
Und falscher Stimme, doch ward ich sehr
Gerühret von ihrem Spiele.
Sie sang von Liebe und Liebesgram,
Aufopfrung und Wiederfinden
Dort oben, in jener besseren Welt,
Wo alle Leiden schwinden.
Sie sang vom irdischen Jammertal,
Von Freuden, die bald zerronnen,
Vom Jenseits, wo die Seele schwelgt
Verklärt in ew’gen Wonnen.
Sie sang das alte Entsagungslied,
Das Eiapopeia vom Himmel,
Womit man einlullt, wenn es greint,
Das Volk, den großen Lümmel.
Ich kenne die Weise, ich kenne den Text,
Ich kenn auch die Herren Verfasser;
Ich weiß, sie tranken heimlich Wein
Und predigten öffentlich Wasser.
Ein neues Lied, ein besseres Lied,
O Freunde, will ich euch dichten!
Wir wollen hier auf Erden schon
Das Himmelreich errichten.
Wir wollen auf Erden glücklich sein,
Und wollen nicht mehr darben;
Verschlemmen soll nicht der faule Bauch,
Was fleißige Hände erwarben.
Es wächst hienieden Brot genug
Für alle Menschenkinder,
Auch Rosen und Myrten, Schönheit und Lust,
Und Zuckererbsen nicht minder.
Ja, Zuckererbsen für jedermann,
Sobald die Schoten platzen!
Den Himmel überlassen wir
Den Engeln und den Spatzen.
Und wachsen uns Flügel nach dem Tod,
So wollen wir euch besuchen
Dort oben, und wir, wir essen mit euch
Die seligsten Torten und Kuchen.
Ein neues Lied, ein besseres Lied!
Es klingt wie Flöten und Geigen!
Das Miserere ist vorbei,
Die Sterbeglocken schweigen.
Die Jungfer Europa ist verlobt
Mit dem schönen Geniusse
Der Freiheit, sie liegen einander im Arm,
Sie schwelgen im ersten Kusse.
Und fehlt der Pfaffensegen dabei,
Die Ehe wird gültig nicht minder -
Es lebe Bräutigam und Braut,
Und ihre zukünftigen Kinder!
Ein Hochzeitkarmen ist mein Lied,
Das bessere, das neue!
In meiner Seele gehen auf
Die Sterne der höchsten Weihe -
Begeisterte Sterne, sie lodern wild,
Zerfließen in Flammenbächen -
Ich fühle mich wunderbar erstarkt,
Ich könnte Eichen zerbrechen!
Seit ich auf deutsche Erde trat,
Durchströmen mich Zaubersäfte -
Der Riese hat wieder die Mutter berührt,
Und es wuchsen ihm neu die Kräfte.
What’s not to like about November when you can enjoy the wit, sarcasm, and fantasy of a great German Romantic poet?
English Text © Karen Margolis
Posted 4 November 2013
“I’d put you in the mirror / I put in front of me”
– Lou Reed 1942-2013
The day Lou Reed died
a generation vibrated
with its age and mortality
we knew the wreckage of drugs & rock music
we never won the battle of sex and soul
stronger than images sounds are our legacy
turn up the volume to drown out the weeping
texting condolences with old friends and lovers
across borders and oceans
surprised we could still feel
30 October 2013
He was an artist to measure our lives by. Already an icon in my student days in the Seventies, his 70th birthday in 2012 was a news item that prompted a poem. It belongs to Song of Age, my poem series in progress.
Red Square hot lips
on Lou Reed’s 70th birthday
bought me a lipstick called Red Square
thinking of you, Lou Reed,
no longer stalking down the wild side
no more lonesome cowboys
nowhere to run & hide
underground flirtations long gone
in high & mighty corridors
consorting with onetime dissenters
celebrating heroin orgies
in abandoned factories
media mingle alter egos
what’s it all about
world turned upside down
Berlin on your birthday
riding the U-Bahn
come sit beside me
eyes up to onboard tv:
King Kong premiere
New York, 2 March 1933
—Germany notes the year—
cover versions followed sporadically
before lyrical deconstruction
robbed the rhymes and rhythms
of poetic endeavour
leaving word scraps floating in gutters
What else happened
on 2 March this year?
It snowed in Jerusalem,
big soft flakes
covering the ground
where my beloved Etta lies
—who is sheltering her street cats now?
Lou Reed is 70
Putin rules the Kremlin
the ghost of an era
howls in Berlin
Berlin, 2 March 2012
These ancient days of mourning the dead, if you hear singing with the angels it’s probably Lou Reed.
Text & cloud photos © Karen Margolis 2013
posted 31 October 2013
.coming up.coming up.coming up. coming up.
UPCOMING #1 and LAUNCHING
This year the clocks changing to winter time seems the signal for a frenzy of activity. Ask my friends how they are doing and they’ll mostly answer with just one word: busy. TBP = Terribly Busy Person has replaced VIP in the parlance of the 21st Century Sweatshop and signifies a new pecking order. She who is not busy is failing. Luckily I have just managed to edge into the TBP ranks. With hardly time to update my diary I’m trying to keep pace. The tireless activity of my friends and myself is simply exhausting.
It may be, of course, that we’re all doing it —consciously or not— to annoy the NSA, BND, GCHQ, and other illegal state eavesdroppers by being so active they can’t keep up. Carry on communicating, should be our motto. Maybe sexting or snapchat can bring the secret listeners to implosion during the dark of the moon. Some of my correspondents specialize in long mails about commas. Let’s entangle the monitoring peeping toms in chains of commas and knock ‘em out with the Chicago style manual.
Another plus is the preview of a post-Facebook era. It feels good to be so busy that it doesn’t matter what people are doing in the social media. Life is elsewhere and the last rays of autumn sun are out there waiting to be caught. Sometimes the world, even in a grimy central European city, is almost too overwhelmingly beautiful. Trying to capture it with a camera is an understandable compulsion. Most of all, there is the urge to just stand and look. And the sheer natural pleasure of throwing off the TBP persona and succumbing to something that really deserves the word “awesome”.
Good news from Los Angeles:
*ERASURE NOIR ANTHOLOGY* will be published in December by Silver Birch Press with erasure poems by 40 poets (including me) based on pages from classical noir novels. The book (digital and print) includes pictures of every erasure page. Details soon. For now, I can only tell you erasure poetry is one of those bright, fascinating ideas that simply devours time. Hard to create but delightful to read, an odd kind of parallel text sensation that tickles in places normal writing doesn’t. (Photo should keep you guessing…).