Just spoke with a writer friend about recent political controversies in the United States. He was angry to the point of going home and drinking what is left of a bottle of Jack Daniels in his cupboard. I'm right there with him, holding an empty glass.
I don't know how we reached this Orwellian state of alternative facts and bigly claims. It sort of mystifies me. Poets are dealers in truth. That's why poets have been imprisoned in totalitarian countries. Truth is a dangerous commodity when dealing with dictators.
I live in a country where two poets can stand in the middle of a crowded hallway and talk about the truth as they see it. As far as I know, there is no Executive Order banning that privilege. Yet. That's the poet's job. To speak, even when the words are difficult to hear.
Syrian poet Adonis knows this. So does Saint Marty.
Between echo and sound two poets stand.
The first speaks like a broken
and the other is silent like a child
who sleeps every night cradled in
a volcano's hand.