“The Dream” by ire’ne Lara Silva
The Dream is this: a balanced life—a happy, loving partner/family; a long, healthy life; abundant economic resources; a lengthy career filled with accomplishments and awards; acknowledged ‘mastery’ of your chosen art; and a harmoniously serene mind and heart to enjoy it all. In reality, we are more likely fragmented and struggling—always spread too thin, always juggling more priorities than we can handle, always trying to carve out...
“Virginia Woolf and a River,” by Florencia Ramirez
“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write,” wrote Virginia Woolf. She described this as the “great problem.” Thirteen years ago, two women, within a canyon of red stone and brush, each with copies of Virginia Woolf’s book, “A Room of Her Own,” conspired to bring together a community of women writers (a room) and a vision to finance creative expression with literary awards (money). Two years ago, I entered the...
“Beautiful Caves”
Kate Gale asks Gift of Freedom winner Diane Gilliam, “In a world where almost anyone would rather be involved in commerce or consumer culture or interaction with the screen, why poetry? It’s not as active as football, not as immediate as mall shopping, not as intrusive as Facebook. It is ancient and quiet, sitting on the side, waiting. It is contemplative and has no place in our modern culture. Or does it? What is...
“Two Edges”
March 28, 2013 As I begin to feel my way toward speaking about Virginia Woolf, there’s a song that keeps coming through and since I’m a believer in anything that keeps trying to come through I’m going to let it in. It’s a song by Joan Manuel Serrat based on a small poem titled “La saeta” by Antonio Machado. It speaks to a traditional Andalusian song type, sung this time of year to the “Jesus de la agonia” in which the singer asks...
“Girl”
Whatever it is she is wanting, it is not too much to ask. We would give it to her if we could, now we are grown women in a car outside the small yellow house where she is forever fifteen, forever leaning her elbows on the front windowsill, pretending not to watch for whatever it is she’s wanting. The living room curtains are closed behind her. Behind her, her mother and sister are fighting. Your sister waged a war in that house, is...
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
The Q: Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, arms outstretched, close enough to touch?
The Q: What echoes through you that longs to take form—a poem, an image, a mark, a whisper of becoming?
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