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.
