I feel really stuck.
I'm against this war, wholeheartedly.
But, I don't believe anything coming out of any side. So, I've retreated
to reading poetry: Rexroth. Olson. Eliot. Pound. David Jones. Owen.
Hardy. Hikmet. Tanikawa. Ilse Aichinger. Qabbani. Merton. Anna Swir.
Bunting. Neidecker. Adonis. Darwish. Brecht. etc. etc.
I still read all the bullshit, but that's all it is. This isn't sent out
to anyone in particular, and I appreciate the struggle we all have
trying to get our heads and hearts around this tragecy. Arguments spring
up all over the place, across the board, and on many lists. It's proven
to me the luxury we have to spend our time spinning the thread around
these wooden spools. It's the same luxury I have when retreating into
poetry, but I feel something deeper there -- not always, of course.
I have no idea why I write this.
--Anastasios
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