My name is Podrig Otuma and once when I was at a book event in Dublin I asked people to

call out a line of poetry that they'd remembered from school and somebody called something out

from Yates and somebody called something out from Nulunig O'Anl and then somebody shouted out,

hopes the thing with feathers and people kind of made noises of recognition of all of those poems and then somebody shouted out, hopes the thing with feathers. And people kind of made noises of recognition of all of those poems. And then right after somebody said, hopes the thing with feathers, somebody, quick as anything, said, I don't know about feathers, but it certainly got claws, which got a great response. I thought it was magnificent, best part of the night. And I loved that quip because it was so fast and so witty.

And also it introduced some challenge to the lines of Emily Dickinson

because we'd gone from talking about lines of poetry and reciting them

to thinking about the content of that.

And I loved the engagement with content, not just recitation,

not just the art of the art, but also looking

at what the art is pointing it towards. It's also got close.

Doca by Lina Khalalafthufaha.

At the restaurant, the loudest sound is the ocean a few blocks away.

A meteor shower is forecast, a once-in-a-lifetime event,

but the freeway flush with headlights precludes us from viewing.

The stars fall silently over us and the waves and the commuters.

We review the menu.

We help the waitress pronounce Dukha.

We talk about aging and what is left to risk.

Love is paying attention, I remark, and you repeat it to me.

Love is also the father who plants an olive tree for every newborn,

trusting they will grow up to harvest it.

Love is the elderly woman who stood inside Damascus Gate,

...