Your poetry begets music, but only to the poor. The poor hear each note of hunger upon their wanderings; whether city, or fields, or highways off the desert roads, the poor shall always hear these tattered tunes laying threadbare, frayed at the heel of existence. Your Russian journeys lead you to God, unbeknownst, an intimate…
Reading Rita Doveโs Boccaccio: The Plague Years
Each day, each night, upon the southern island that reaches out to the Gulf of Mexico, the clapboard beach houses raise their tunes of flying fish, slapping hard upon the waterโs edge. I was two, perhaps, younger. My memory slips into a time of a golden astonishment, white sand that stings as a round, translucent…
Reading Rita Dove at Sunrise
Pacing, as a hummingbird spins her wings and tiny frame, not frantic, but gracefully as Paavo Oso and his art, staring impassive to his muse, what shall ruminating speak this time? Seven A.M. The canvas still clean. Once upon a timeโฆ he felt the lascivious rage within his rags, threads reaching to the sky…
Reading Rita Dove at Midnight
Life, never what it appears to be unless one is a poet. I think of you, as I dig deeply into your metaphors, and the communities of the marginalized, the early morning freeze, deadens my fingertips upon this black, icy laptop, frozen as if dead. Your words, alive with the perfume of truth. I learn…
John G Evans & Paavo Oso Arts 