The Place de la République’s outdoor cafe, white wine in a glass so thin it blurs realms with the greenery, and with a statue patina-ed bronze, its plaque too far to read, dull-lettered, pigeon-marked, possibly a thesis on history. Yet the student lesson for today was the bomb at Boulevard St. Michel, and the tourist’s…
Patchouli oil and the scent of your travel hair, our smaller days middle-aged and measured by hotel soaps that come in gold foil wrappers like they’re something special. You say one European city is like another. Scientists say somewhere in space exist colors we’ve never seen. When we make love in the hotel room in…
As we say farewell to twenty fourteen To the joys, sorrows and all in-between, Let’s remember that when it comes to the Jews There is no such thing as too much good news! Could this be the year of women, we asked. The Forward 50 had more than years past. Leadership, alas, remains a man’s…
when we are born thirst makes us cry thirst surges through our arteries when the hormones hit when we start to wither our thirst actually increases for the tongue of touch the dictionary of rain we remember we were once loved it was love that kept us alive ** Then every face was like the…
Since 2010, it has become the Forward’s tradition to highlight five memorable poetry releases of the year — but this year we have six. Among this year’s selections are “Breathturn Into Timestead,” a collection of five final volumes of poetry by Paul Celan, newly translated by Pierre Joris, and three vastly different retrospectives by David…
Don’t yell at me, whisper: try to stop I let him drink from me I let him speed us up to the end to extremes I couldn’t imagine— (these are words that cannot be written) At the 7th Avenue station drained and soiled I forgot what any child knows by heart I couldn’t read the…
Translated by Rachel Tzvia Back 1 Bound on Her Boulders Bound on her boulders a burnt offering in flames trampled by light of the daily sacrifice this teeming city, longing in its walls within walls scattered towers thin outcries grey wind of the olives torn among the hills yearned-for city of wings from her red…
It has to do with seeing. Light. Or dark. It has to do with knowing. Speak and prophesy, darken and move: But what I see is not what I know. What I hear is not what I believe. And now the first light is dark, the morning has not yet lifted the night sky. Chirping….
