Poetry
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A Different Distance: A Renga
An Indie Next Selection for December 2021
A Ms. Magazine Recommended Read for Fall 2021
In March 2020, France declared a full lockdown to prevent the spread of the coronavirus. Shortly thereafter, poets and friends Marilyn Hacker and Karthika Naïr-living mere miles from each other but separated by circumstance, and spurred by this extraordinary time-began a correspondence in verse.
Renga, an ancient Japanese form of collaborative poetry, is comprised of alternating tanka beginning with the themes of tōki and tōza: this season, this session. Here, from the "plague spring," through a year in which seasons are marked by the waxing and waning of the virus, Hacker and Naïr's renga charts the "differents and sames" of a now-shared experience. Their poems witness a time of suspension in which some things, somehow, press on relentlessly, in which solidarity persists-even thrives-in the face of a strange new kind of isolation. Between "ten thousand, yes, minutes of Bones," there's cancer and chemotherapy and the aches of an aging body. There is grief for the loss of friends nearby and concern for loved ones in the United States, Lebanon, and India. And there is a deep sense of shared humanity, where we all are "mere atoms of water, / each captained by protons of hydrogen, hurtling earthward."
At turns poignant and playful, the seasons and sessions of A Different Distance display the compassionate, collective wisdom of two women witnessing a singular moment in history.
A Ms. Magazine Recommended Read for Fall 2021
In March 2020, France declared a full lockdown to prevent the spread of the coronavirus. Shortly thereafter, poets and friends Marilyn Hacker and Karthika Naïr-living mere miles from each other but separated by circumstance, and spurred by this extraordinary time-began a correspondence in verse.
Renga, an ancient Japanese form of collaborative poetry, is comprised of alternating tanka beginning with the themes of tōki and tōza: this season, this session. Here, from the "plague spring," through a year in which seasons are marked by the waxing and waning of the virus, Hacker and Naïr's renga charts the "differents and sames" of a now-shared experience. Their poems witness a time of suspension in which some things, somehow, press on relentlessly, in which solidarity persists-even thrives-in the face of a strange new kind of isolation. Between "ten thousand, yes, minutes of Bones," there's cancer and chemotherapy and the aches of an aging body. There is grief for the loss of friends nearby and concern for loved ones in the United States, Lebanon, and India. And there is a deep sense of shared humanity, where we all are "mere atoms of water, / each captained by protons of hydrogen, hurtling earthward."
At turns poignant and playful, the seasons and sessions of A Different Distance display the compassionate, collective wisdom of two women witnessing a singular moment in history.
Editorial Reviews
Tonight, an empire
of pain reigns over attempts to write, think; to be.
Fall, even summer, graze past
ears as would submerged boulders.
RDEB – four
horseless, shapeless, ageless words – must play first fiddle;
second, third, and last as well, while all others earn exile.
― KN, 5 May 2020
***
Home becomes exile
in the punished city. Leaves green beyond grillwork,
Nazim Hikmet's post-card from prison poems on the sill.
Locked-in lovers make
love until it bores them . Once through a hurricane
in Crete . . . but that was three days, decades ago, two of us.
― MH, 7 May 2020
***
This, decades ago,
was how I gaped at the sea. Reaching Rue Manin,
the years sublime, suddenly-
much-younger selves drink from this
downpour of gloaming, we gasp at the carnival corralled within Parc
des Buttes-Chaumont. Cedar, elm, and linden, pine, plane and beech,
arch towards the sky; hazelnut and cherry trees flaunt wanton blossoms;
and the cascades underground serenade us from afar.
― KN, 8 May 2020
***
From afar, but it
wasn't, thunder, rush of dark clouds, then crash of rain,
just after I noticed, no
gates blocked the berges of the Île
St-Louis. No way
but, run under the rain, no café shelter.
Strip off once indoors, shower. Flu, or worse, I'm on my own.
Later, on my own,
I slice shallots and mushrooms into olive oil
and begin to imagine
I might not cough tomorrow.
― MH, 9 May 2020
***
Tomorrow might bring
the unknown – new foes, allies of Taxol; blitzkrieg
within the chest; skull afire (the mind sentinels one front
alone, these days) – but also Philippe, bonne fée, by the hospital doors,
strafed by showers or barraged – joyfully – by vernal sun.
― KN, 12 May 2020
***
Lengthening vernal afternoons to evenings sometimes we would walk
Bastille to Concorde, halfway back, talking, stop for coffee
in a nondescript
café, touching each other's arms for emphasis.
Where the métro took someone home's a foreign country now.
― MH, 13 May 2020
***
Foreigners but both home: this body and Paris, the only ones I
have known dearly for thus long, inconstant, heedless satyrs
but mine, always mine.
Now, though, they turn hesitant, unfamiliar to
their mirrors, shorn of birthmarks and lush with other beings.
― KN, 14 May 2020
***
Budding, lush, wilting, lilacs, then roses, behind iron grills: locked gardens,
each with some reminiscence. There, we ate ham sandwiches
on a bench, talking
about Ho...
of pain reigns over attempts to write, think; to be.
Fall, even summer, graze past
ears as would submerged boulders.
RDEB – four
horseless, shapeless, ageless words – must play first fiddle;
second, third, and last as well, while all others earn exile.
― KN, 5 May 2020
***
Home becomes exile
in the punished city. Leaves green beyond grillwork,
Nazim Hikmet's post-card from prison poems on the sill.
Locked-in lovers make
love until it bores them . Once through a hurricane
in Crete . . . but that was three days, decades ago, two of us.
― MH, 7 May 2020
***
This, decades ago,
was how I gaped at the sea. Reaching Rue Manin,
the years sublime, suddenly-
much-younger selves drink from this
downpour of gloaming, we gasp at the carnival corralled within Parc
des Buttes-Chaumont. Cedar, elm, and linden, pine, plane and beech,
arch towards the sky; hazelnut and cherry trees flaunt wanton blossoms;
and the cascades underground serenade us from afar.
― KN, 8 May 2020
***
From afar, but it
wasn't, thunder, rush of dark clouds, then crash of rain,
just after I noticed, no
gates blocked the berges of the Île
St-Louis. No way
but, run under the rain, no café shelter.
Strip off once indoors, shower. Flu, or worse, I'm on my own.
Later, on my own,
I slice shallots and mushrooms into olive oil
and begin to imagine
I might not cough tomorrow.
― MH, 9 May 2020
***
Tomorrow might bring
the unknown – new foes, allies of Taxol; blitzkrieg
within the chest; skull afire (the mind sentinels one front
alone, these days) – but also Philippe, bonne fée, by the hospital doors,
strafed by showers or barraged – joyfully – by vernal sun.
― KN, 12 May 2020
***
Lengthening vernal afternoons to evenings sometimes we would walk
Bastille to Concorde, halfway back, talking, stop for coffee
in a nondescript
café, touching each other's arms for emphasis.
Where the métro took someone home's a foreign country now.
― MH, 13 May 2020
***
Foreigners but both home: this body and Paris, the only ones I
have known dearly for thus long, inconstant, heedless satyrs
but mine, always mine.
Now, though, they turn hesitant, unfamiliar to
their mirrors, shorn of birthmarks and lush with other beings.
― KN, 14 May 2020
***
Budding, lush, wilting, lilacs, then roses, behind iron grills: locked gardens,
each with some reminiscence. There, we ate ham sandwiches
on a bench, talking
about Ho...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Tonight, an empire
of pain reigns over attempts to write, think; to be.
Fall, even summer, graze past
ears as would submerged boulders.
RDEB – four
horseless, shapeless, ageless words – must play first fiddle;
second, third, and last as well, while all others earn exile.
― KN, 5 May 2020
***
Home becomes exile
in the punished city. Leaves green beyond grillwork,
Nazim Hikmet's post-card from prison poems on the sill.
Locked-in lovers make
love until it bores them . Once through a hurricane
in Crete . . . but that was three days, decades ago, two of us.
― MH, 7 May 2020
***
This, decades ago,
was how I gaped at the sea. Reaching Rue Manin,
the years sublime, suddenly-
much-younger selves drink from this
downpour of gloaming, we gasp at the carnival corralled within Parc
des Buttes-Chaumont. Cedar, elm, and linden, pine, plane and beech,
arch towards the sky; hazelnut and cherry trees flaunt wanton blossoms;
and the cascades underground serenade us from afar.
― KN, 8 May 2020
***
From afar, but it
wasn't, thunder, rush of dark clouds, then crash of rain,
just after I noticed, no
gates blocked the berges of the Île
St-Louis. No way
but, run under the rain, no café shelter.
Strip off once indoors, shower. Flu, or worse, I'm on my own.
Later, on my own,
I slice shallots and mushrooms into olive oil
and begin to imagine
I might not cough tomorrow.
― MH, 9 May 2020
***
Tomorrow might bring
the unknown – new foes, allies of Taxol; blitzkrieg
within the chest; skull afire (the mind sentinels one front
alone, these days) – but also Philippe, bonne fée, by the hospital doors,
strafed by showers or barraged – joyfully – by vernal sun.
― KN, 12 May 2020
***
Lengthening vernal afternoons to evenings sometimes we would walk
Bastille to Concorde, halfway back, talking, stop for coffee
in a nondescript
café, touching each other's arms for emphasis.
Where the métro took someone home's a foreign country now.
― MH, 13 May 2020
***
Foreigners but both home: this body and Paris, the only ones I
have known dearly for thus long, inconstant, heedless satyrs
but mine, always mine.
Now, though, they turn hesitant, unfamiliar to
their mirrors, shorn of birthmarks and lush with other beings.
― KN, 14 May 2020
***
Budding, lush, wilting, lilacs, then roses, behind iron grills: locked gardens,
each with some reminiscence. There, we ate ham sandwiches
on a bench, talking
about Homs, and Aleppo. There, a France Inter
reporter interviewed me two months after I finished
chemo. I stared at
green leaves, blue sky, found something more appropriate
to say than "I'm still alive."
And am, outside the gates, now.
― MH, 15 May 2020
of pain reigns over attempts to write, think; to be.
Fall, even summer, graze past
ears as would submerged boulders.
RDEB – four
horseless, shapeless, ageless words – must play first fiddle;
second, third, and last as well, while all others earn exile.
― KN, 5 May 2020
***
Home becomes exile
in the punished city. Leaves green beyond grillwork,
Nazim Hikmet's post-card from prison poems on the sill.
Locked-in lovers make
love until it bores them . Once through a hurricane
in Crete . . . but that was three days, decades ago, two of us.
― MH, 7 May 2020
***
This, decades ago,
was how I gaped at the sea. Reaching Rue Manin,
the years sublime, suddenly-
much-younger selves drink from this
downpour of gloaming, we gasp at the carnival corralled within Parc
des Buttes-Chaumont. Cedar, elm, and linden, pine, plane and beech,
arch towards the sky; hazelnut and cherry trees flaunt wanton blossoms;
and the cascades underground serenade us from afar.
― KN, 8 May 2020
***
From afar, but it
wasn't, thunder, rush of dark clouds, then crash of rain,
just after I noticed, no
gates blocked the berges of the Île
St-Louis. No way
but, run under the rain, no café shelter.
Strip off once indoors, shower. Flu, or worse, I'm on my own.
Later, on my own,
I slice shallots and mushrooms into olive oil
and begin to imagine
I might not cough tomorrow.
― MH, 9 May 2020
***
Tomorrow might bring
the unknown – new foes, allies of Taxol; blitzkrieg
within the chest; skull afire (the mind sentinels one front
alone, these days) – but also Philippe, bonne fée, by the hospital doors,
strafed by showers or barraged – joyfully – by vernal sun.
― KN, 12 May 2020
***
Lengthening vernal afternoons to evenings sometimes we would walk
Bastille to Concorde, halfway back, talking, stop for coffee
in a nondescript
café, touching each other's arms for emphasis.
Where the métro took someone home's a foreign country now.
― MH, 13 May 2020
***
Foreigners but both home: this body and Paris, the only ones I
have known dearly for thus long, inconstant, heedless satyrs
but mine, always mine.
Now, though, they turn hesitant, unfamiliar to
their mirrors, shorn of birthmarks and lush with other beings.
― KN, 14 May 2020
***
Budding, lush, wilting, lilacs, then roses, behind iron grills: locked gardens,
each with some reminiscence. There, we ate ham sandwiches
on a bench, talking
about Homs, and Aleppo. There, a France Inter
reporter interviewed me two months after I finished
chemo. I stared at
green leaves, blue sky, found something more appropriate
to say than "I'm still alive."
And am, outside the gates, now.
― MH, 15 May 2020
