BALTIMORE In other noises, I hear my children crying— in older children playing on the street past bedtime, their voices buoyant in the staggered light; or in the baby next door, wakeful and petulant through too-thin walls; or in the constant freakish pitch of Westside Baltimore on The Wire, its sirens and rapid gunfire, its beleaguered cops haranguing kids as young as six for propping up the dealers on the corners, their swagger and spitfire speech; or in the white space between radio stations when no voice comes at all and the crackling static might be swallowing whole a child’s slim call for help; even in silence itself, its material loops and folds enveloping a ghost cry, one I’ve made up, but heard, that has me climbing the stairs, pausing in the hall, listening, listening hard, to—at most—rhythmical breathing but more often than not to nothing, the air of the landing thick with something missed, dust motes, the overhang of blankets, a ship on the Lough through the window, infant sleep – SINÉAD MORRISSEY, 2012
Ikke sant?
Man kan kanskje bli litt molefunken av å lese – som man gjør i dagens Klassekampen – at Norges største poesilag ikke teller mer enn 176 medlemmer. For burde ikke det største være større. Men så leser man i Seattle Times av alle ting (nettet, altså) hvor den amerikanske poeten Robert Pinsky snakker varmt og håpefullt om den varme og håpefulle sjangeren.
