TO THE ASHES IN L.A.

by Alexis Krasilovsky

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

A poem is a monument

when there aren’t enough stones

to place on the burial grounds

to hold ghosts

in place.

 

A poem is a monument

when you’re exiled from the land

and poems are portable.

 

A poem is a monument

when tears

evaporate before

words can be written down.

 

When you’re fleeing flames

that multiply like stars

in a darkening firmament,

only a poem

can speak to it.

 

When lies propagate

into your flickering

consciousness,

sweeping under rugs

the killing fields.

 

When your bare feet

step onto

radioactive sand.

 

When rose petals fly

in fiery winds,

replaced by embers

and ashes.

 

A poem is a monument

when pots filled with ashes

are left in the rain,

overflowing.

 

When seeds of memories

sprout anew,

and trees grow

high enough to bring shade.

 

          A poem is a monument

          when you take time to imagine

          the gravestones

          of your ancestors.

 

Alexis Krasilovsky most recent book Watermelon Linguistics: New and Selected Poems (Cyberwit) was a finalist in the 2022 International Book Awards. She is also the author of Great Adaptations: Screenwriting and Global Storytelling and has traveled to twenty countries making and screening her global documentary features Women Behind the Camera and Let Them Eat Cake—available for free streaming on Kanopy.com.

ANTI-WAR RALLY

A Correspondence

by Phyllis Klein, Kathy Les, and Renée Schell

KYIV, Ukraine — Makeshift roadblocks have been installed throughout this capital to impede the movements of Russian troops snaking toward the city in a convoy about 15 miles away. On some strategic thruways, Ukrainians have parked trams and buses to restrict driving access. Checkpoints to inspect IDs have also been established to root out would-be saboteurs. “We have a lot of presents” for the Russians, Kyiv Mayor Vitali Klitschko said in an interview. “It’s not sweet. It’s very painful.” The extended 40-mile parade of Russian armored vehicles, tanks and towed artillery headed from the north on a path toward Kyiv has both alarmed and befuddled watchers of this expanding war. It’s not just its sheer size. It’s also because for days, it has not appreciably been moving. U.S. officials attribute the apparent stall in part to logistical failures on the Russian side, including food and fuel shortages, that have slowed Moscow’s advance through various parts of the country. They have also credited Ukrainian efforts to attack selected parts of the convoy with contributing to its slowdown. Still, officials warn that the Russians could regroup at any moment and continue to press forward. —The Washington Post, March 7, 2022

Dear Friends,

I send my love this spring as every

day a new trauma comes

to bury us just as we climb out 

of yesterday’s avalanche. Even here in 

the flatlands, sidewalks seem to turn

into wet clay, our feet leaving prints

that suck my shoes into glue-like cement.

My heart muscles out its love 

to your hearts as I struggle 

to take a walk, no way to avoid those

cruel neighborhoods of bad news. 

How bad news molders in the streets of tar

and disappointment. Flat tires

and tire irons so easy to weaponize.

Trees blighted, only crows left.

Love watches a plague of human heartlessness

trying to destroy it. Love begs 

for combat boots, stands on the fire escape

outside its tenement of low income love-fires.

I say, Let them burn. To kindle what is lovely 

I send you them, the embers.

—Phyllis

***

Whose Spring?

Lately I wonder 

for whose sake 

the flowers bud, 

the trees open. 

I watch the oak tree 

two houses away, 

how it plumes wider 

a little more each day, 

its pent-up exhilaration 

to burst forth, readiness 

for another year 

of leafy dress. 

Two continents away, 

a 40-mile convoy 

of armored trucks 

stalled in unison, greedy 

to penetrate a capital city 

that not two weeks ago 

populated itself with people 

awaiting their next spring, 

a chance to shed 

the heavy cold,

wet nights. 

 

Now those nights 

are filled with embers, 

blasts big enough,

red enough to douse 

whatever hope 

was had for a new year. 

Whose war is this anyway. 

Whose spring? 

—Kathy

***

Sister Cities

U.S. Sister Cities Sever Relationships to Counterparts in RussiaUkraine—Bloomberg, March 4, 2022

Whose spring? 

Whose war?

Here we planted a new 

word for spring:

Weaponize

A word I don’t want 

to taste in my mouth.

When did that appear?

Daily, hourly

wherever you look

fear is weaponized

water is weaponized

tire irons weaponized

words always.

Here, our spring

promise of ranunculus

sky of water vapor

sky of plumes

sky of smoke

A 40-mile convoy stalled, 

headlights and taillights

a rifle barrel’s width apart

a push, a threat, a smack.

There, even the roads 

are weaponized 

not our hearts

never let it be our hearts

There, hearts are strewn 

on the road 

like spent bullets.

When do we learn that there 

contains here?

—Renée 

Phyllis Klein, Kathy Les, and Renée Schell are widely published poets connected through a poetry crafting group meeting on Zoom. They live in Palo Alto, San Jose, and Sacramento, CA respectively.  This conversation poem is one of many collaborations they hope to have.