The biggest blessing was the revival of the journal of the poetry community of which I am fortunate member, Verse-Virtual. Last fall Verse-Virtual's founder and editor Firestone Feinberg fell ill and could not continue to edit and produce the group's online journal, which has been publishing new issues every month for five years. That stream of publication ceased last October. Happily, Firestone is recovering and we look hopefully for his return.
But in the meantime the members of the community recognized and acknowledged to one another that we were missing the frequent contact and communication that Verse-Virtual's journal stimulates and decided we needed to continue Firestone's work on an interim basis.
Two of the publication's contributing editors stepped up and volunteered to do the editorial and production work to bring out a newon Jan. 1, 2020. We were fortunate to find in Jim Lewis someone who has the technical skills to create the necessary new web pages. And contributing editor Donna Hilbert volunteered to serve as guest editor, reading all the submissions and choosing the poems.
The only change is the while the journal's domain used to end with ".com," the new incarnation ends with ".org."
So all are invited to read the poems and other content at Verse-Virtual.org
After saving the journal's archives by transferring all the material to the new domain, Jim had this to say about the history and make-up of the Verse-Virtual community in his editor's notes for the January issue:
"I learned a lot about this community and the people in it from reading random bio notes. A beautifully diverse group, but there's a strong commonality that is strikingly obvious when viewed "growing backwards". Passion and compassion are woven all through your poems. You are a group of people who experience life with intensity, and it shows in your writing."
So, I've been celebrating the revived Verse-Virtual all month (in addition to reading submissions for our next issue, in March). Here are some excerpts from a few of the many strong poems in the January issue:
Last year, trying to escape the cold—
we snuck off to the barn,
to hear the lowing of the animals.
But the dark with its mossy warmth
greeted us with another legend,
and the green holly man startled us
from his perch up in the rafters.
This night, we are cagey, fearless.
[from "Visiting His Aunt, Christmas" by Laurie Bryo]
Unfold your fingers, if you can—
they are waiting to grow eloquent
and strong. They will move under mine
the first time you touch the watered silk
of an iris, or your mother’s face.
[from Marilyn Taylor's "From a Dark Place"]
six newspapers
scattered across the porch
of my dead neighbor
[from "Five Haiku" by David Graham]
You wonder
that her near-
nakedness
means nothing,
that what light
can touch is
only surface,
that what you
can't enter
you can't be.
[from "The Woman in an Imaginary Painting" by Tom Montag]
Occupied with my glass,
swirling and sipping the rough
country wine, I failed to observe
how green mountains slipped
behind the curtain of night
and how the river birch gleamed
a moment in the fading day.
[from "Inattention" by Steve Klepetar]
He stepped out of the sea
at precisely 4 p.m.
He wore a dark suit,
and it didn’t appear to be wet.
Barefoot,
he ran his hands through his hair
and asked me what shore
he’d washed up on.
[from "Shelley" by Kareen Tayyar]
Where are the dead of the flood
who missed the ship
who lost their grip
who were not picked
to go below the rainbow’s arc?
Where are the dead of the flood
the ones who swam, the ones who float
in indigo waters beyond their depth,
beneath our vision, begrudged their breath—
[from "Noah's Arc" by Betsy Mars]
The parties have ended.
Confetti has been swept up and thrown away.
Headaches have disappeared.
And maybe that’s why I’ve always preferred
the second day of the year.
Because it’s ordinary, unassuming.
The streets are quiet.
Stores are open.
There are no parades or football games.
You can walk without feeling lonely.
[from "The Second Day of the Year" by Clint Margrave]
I tumble into the chair, while Arik,
born and raised in Soviet, and stoic as Putin
set to interrogate yet another poet,
unfurls the cape over my head
and makes me feel what it’s like to disappear.
[from "The Kremlin Barber Shop" by Alan Walowitz]
You can read the rest of these poems, and find many more like them at
http://www.verse-virtual.org/poems-and-articles.html
ne,
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