I’m giving away this copy of some of Thomas Hardy’s poems from my personal collection. Thomas Hardy was the author that got me interested in literature so it seemed like a natural choice.
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The giveaway ends on World Poetry Day (March 21) at 11:59 PM (Pacific Time). The winner will be drawn randomly and I will contact you within a few days.
I will ship internationally.
Only 3 days left to enter the giveaway!
Enter the contest for the chance to win this book.
“And she looked at the moon and asked if this was how life was supposed to be. If it was supposed to be hard and tiring. The moon smiled at the young girl wistfully and sighed. She knew that everything was wrong and she couldn’t fix it except listen to her woes and show up for her almost everyday. She was let down by everyone and would be let down by her as well. But at least she’d see the little stars she’d leave behind to be there for her constantly. It wasn’t enough but she hoped she’d realize that those who cared would always stay or leave things about themselves behind to be remembered by. And that they were never truly gone. And for that moment she shone a little brighter and stayed a little longer to listen to her woes before she disappeared for another day.”
poetry (let’s say) the dream is all we still have in this time of crisis…
Born in the far south of the Democratic Republic of Congo, Fiston Mwanza Mujila is a writer and educator who over the last several years, among other honors, has gained prominence for his debut novel Tram 83. (English edition trans. Roland Glasser.) Yet, with an oeuvre that is varied, besides short stories and plays, poetry is the form where he began. A backbone where it might be argued Mujila is also at his most. Readers indeed can thank Asymptote Journal in previous years for publishing some of this poetry in English translation by J. Bret Maney. Now not just excerpts butthe whole collection of The River in the Belly is offered from indie publisher Deep Vellum through imprint Phoneme Media. The Congo River, history, violence, exile, nature, man, and bible verses all saturate punchy, jazzy abraded ‘solitudes’ as quick but tugging as a single line or flowing across pages. With a complexity too, as much of Mujila’s writing, the back includes an assortment of notes. An especially helpful aid with the Lingala and Swahili spattered across the work. Those lingua franca among the six languages, Mujila, writes in. Too, the collection originally appeared in a bilingual French/German edition (trans Ludwig Hartinger) in Austria where Mujila has lived for many years. Like in the verve of different languages, some works may survive on the page fine, but I imagine Mujila’s verse best alive when at a poetry slam. However, thanks to the Transnational Literature Series at Brookline Booksmith you can further experience his recitals during a celebratory event of the collection with two of his translators and editor David Shook.
The River in the Belly by Fiston Mwanza Mujila is available in English translated by J. Bret Maney, in print and digital from Phoneme Media
Funnily enough, though I didn’t even realize it was world poetry day yesterday, I delivered a talk on writing poetry. Anyway, here is a list of my published poems:
Who says that all must vanish? Who knows, perhaps the flight of the bird you wound remains, and perhaps flowers survive caresses in us, in their ground.
It isn’t the gesture that lasts, but it dresses you again in gold armor —from breast to knees— and the battle was so pure an Angel wears it after you.
there were no rules when i met you. no waiting, we just filled the small amount of time we had together with as much of us as possible.
we filled our days exploring the world, our nights exploring each other. that time of knowing how right it was and marveling at what seemed like our incredible luck.
I stand at the seashore, alone, and start to think.
There are the rushing waves mountains of molecules each stupidly minding its own business trillions apart yet forming white surf in unison
Ages on ages before any eyes could see year after year thunderously pounding the shore as now. For whom, for what? On a dead planet with no life to entertain.
Never at rest tortured by energy wasted prodigiously by the Sun poured into space. A mite makes the sea roar.
Deep in the sea all molecules repeat the patterns of one another till complex new ones are formed. They make others like themselves and a new dance starts. Growing in size and complexity living things masses of atoms DNA, protein dancing a pattern ever more intricate.
Out of the cradle onto dry land here it is standing: atoms with consciousness; matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea, wonders at wondering: I a universe of atoms an atom in the Universe.
