Señor Despaïr

Against a Hopeless Time

1. Señor Despaïr

Sand, evening.

The silence of the steps 

by the breathing shore

after the thing I believed too late. 

The steps slip in and out of hearing 

like a memory I cannot reach, a word 

at the back of my mind

that will not come as I stumble

through fog hiding the sea and my shame

in a grayness I almost touch,

toward pilings that loom like the back of a crowd

in a dark theater as they wait for it to begin,

a dance to dazzle them

in cruel wordless patterns bound to something almost  

    holy.

A shining crow—

rara avis indeed here where sea gulls rant,

smudges of whiteness, quivering sandpipers,

and alcatrazes like cracked schists—the crow 

starts up, cawing and strident. 

“Do you see the patterns of the raindrops in the sand?” 

   behind me

a courtly, old-world voice seems to say.

“They call it random out of their mathematical despair.”

The last word is spoken as if in Spanish: “des-pa-eer.”

I turn to see a small, older man, smiling, attired

    impeccably,

bizarrely formal for beach wear—perhaps an hidalgo

from Oaxaca, or a patrón 

from the cultured banlieus of Buenos Aires—

in an old-time white suit, elegant 

bolo tie, his hair and mustache groomed and white as sea

   foam.

I half-imagine he has materialized from the sea.

“But we do not need to listen to them too closely:

we cannot build a life on the psychosis of physics.

If you follow any chain of logic to its end,

you end in madness.” 

                                       I almost thought he said 

next: “The night 

will rage with the storm, 

the rain cuts like ice through the air.

Come, huddle in my arms.” 

                                                  But no. 

He stood there politely and spoke on,

his English lightly accented with Spanish. 

“Listen to the wind—el viento!”

He paused. “The next blow will flatten us, no doubt,

or if not, rip a hole in the sky

that will sink the world in the night like the sea. 

It will be, as they say, very impressive!

“I cannot take much more of this, being 

an old man, and yet I must, 

foolish and weak as I am.

There is little tenderness because there is little

    forgiveness.

I will pray to the night if I can find no other god.

But I can find no other god—eh, what of that?”

He looks toward the waves still visible in the dusk.

“ ‘Join us, join us!’ they call.

The darkness thickens around us, like a blanket.

I stare hypnotized like a snake at the old man.

He smiles more deeply, stares up at an invisible sky 

then lowers his strange eyes back to me.

“One day I was invited to a party—

there was much food and drink y música,

and beautiful and clever and friendly young folk, and

   dancing

all night, and romantic corners just made for kissing—

a wonderful party ‘where everyone is going,’ and I was

guaranteed to have the time of my life.

“But there was one condition, of course (have you ever

    heard

of a wonderful offering without a condition?

After all, we live in a capitalist society!):

No one was allowed to leave the party alive. 

“Everyone knew the condition? Of course we did;

we were not born, as you say so cleverly, yesterday!

It was even written in capital letters at the top, bottom, and

at elegantly spaced intervals across the invitation 

we each received

in the postal mail two weeks ago.

“But each of us was convinced

we would survive:

We would sneak out just before dawn, 

when the death squads were scheduled to descend 

on the silent household

where the partiers were lying about, dead to the world or in restless dreams after the exhausting 

night’s festivities,

and kill them all in their sleep.

“One or two are rumored to have escaped. 

People constantly seek them:
they look into the face of everyone they meet,

hoping that maybe this one is a survivor.

I myself have been taken for such! I am certainly old

   enough!

“May I ask you something?

Do you have a soul? 

That thing that aches in the space you feel

somewhere behind your eyes

or hiding in the cavern of your chest;

that thrums with grief,

shakes with joy, makes you mad with love?

“You often wonder about that. I know this!

The scientists, those nihilistas,

are almost gleeful when they say they can’t find any

prueba científica for it, so, like ghosts, fairies, and God,

it must be dismissed with the condescending doubt 

one gives idiotas, the uneducated, 

and Republicans!

“The soul, they say, 

is nothing but . . . is nothing but . . . is nothing,

nada, though you feel it is 

todo—everything.

“It is not unlike this, which they say is the size

of the heart.” 

He raises his fist and looks at it

almost with admiration.

“It can build a city, it can kill

a rattlesnake. It can shoot a president!

It may be nothing, but it is a nothing that can make

    nothing

of everything. Remember that,

my physicist, biologist, economist, psychologist, psychiatrist, capitalist, Antichrist . . .

“Did I say that? I did not say that—erase it from your

    mind.

It was not said, it was not heard or thought. 

The truth will set you free

por nada. It opens the prison cell

to reveal la prisión infinita outside.”

The old man pauses and locks my eyes in his 

in the darkness as it tightens softly around us.

“You think me un viejo loco,

scrambled with drugs and too much tequila—’crasy in the

    head!’—

or just a crank outdated, useless. And you are right!

“It is better for you to think so, you who are young,

however old you feel: Compared to me,

you are a child, and deserve to keep your innocence

a little longer

en las cadenas del mundo y del tiempo—

in, what do you call?—the chains of time and the world,

as long, that is, as you are able to deny them 

in the rage of your mind 

and your strenuous will,

your pride and your fury

at the fate that world and time

are wreathing around your future, 

the one you hope to defy 

with a brilliant name across the air

that all may see, or none, that shouts out: estaba aquí—I

    was here!
Once, once only, irremovable 

in the sun’s cold memory, para siempre.

Even if no one ever sees it again: it was,

eternamente, like an absolute

matchstick—un hombre: un fósforo eterno!

“So what shall we call it, for we must have a name for it,

a word we can blame it on, 

to give us the illusion of knowledge and power?

“‘El Reino des Perdidos’—‘The Kingdom of the Lost’—I

   first liked, then found 

trillado, trite;

then ‘Ink on Coal’ before I found that too banal;

‘Despair’ was at the head for a week; 

and even better: ‘Désespoir’—

before my crítico interno returned 

and tossed that definitively down the pissoir!

‘An Enemy of the People’—now that is an honest title!

But Ibsen used it,

and his fans can be unforgiving.

‘The Plot of the Homeless Sovereigns’ was a desperate

   gesture only,

and ‘The Wilding Masters’ was an admission of defeat.

We eventually settled on something ancient yet unused,

direct, simple:

‘El viento y la noche’: 

‘The Wind and the Night.’

“I remember how the sun rose then. 

The throngs of clubbers staggered from a bar called 

    The End Up.

The heroes banked in a strange fire.

They bowed with a terribly earnest politeness.

It was damning: for only a murderous hatred

with a shot of blood and a pint of poison 

to tickle the imagination could make a man glad.

Love be damned! It was hatred we wanted,

and the prospect of crushing an enemy.

Not the fact so much—the idea:

une jolie fantaisie, as the French say.

“The world is not content to destroy.

It must humiliate at the same stroke:

jeering, shame, and annihilation.

A goal worth pursuing, truly,

even if not realistic! Who knows, 

next time we may get it right!

The Prince de ce monde will aid you if you are

patient and humble, and persevere: Perfect 

destruction is as beautiful as perfect 

creation—more rare and beautiful still!—

una perfección only those cast 

into oblivion can ever know,

for only they are so far lost

there is no memory of them. 

Like certain suicides:

a song, a drama, a dance,

in which realization, culmination, ruin

are one. Are one. Are one. Are one.

“Mi mundo era yo.

I was the world.

When I die, dies the universe—

the only universe I can know.

“I want to shout, ‘No! Never!’

but the futility of such words 

suffocates them 

even before they speak.”

The old man sighs, but seems

not to notice. Drunk on itself,

his voice patters on.

“But courage, my friend! Courage, defiance, and wit: 

a taste for metaphoros and phrase-making: 

much can be made from this garden for growing 

unos universos eternos y infinitos—

universes eternal and infinite!—

out of the humus, compost heap, trash,

of the prima materia of this world;

swelling like lotus blossoms out of the waste

and perfuming the morning with a wilderness sweetness

none—no, none!—could have hoped for or dreamed of,

a delicacy exquisite,

a living line, a profile of ivory

cut from a cloud: the hand of an angel

baffled, as it turns in the air,

by the beauty floating on emptiness 

like waterlilies on a cold pond.

“And who is there to consider all this, 

delight in its million brief enchantments,

its undomesticated glories, 

its conquests and gentleness,

its random ecstasy and splendor,

its snuggling, cozy and quite comical smiles,

its mystery without end—

who but us, my friend? And a few 

torn-winged angels

we no longer believe in, and a passel of other gods.”

The sun had set. I could see no more than the old man’s

    shadow

against the black wall of the sea, from which the voice 

emerged in the wash of waves.

“Despising este espectáculo extraño—this freak show!—

into which we were born

is a sign of good taste.

“For only pity sees the mask 

breaking behind the brazen face

where fear fights with pride, grief 

with insolence, folly with suspicion 

carved, half from wisdom,

half from a refusal to look at the face 

de la realidad: the human 

spirit, part demon, part angel, part monkey—

a pretentious ape that invented God 

and hell.

“But—you are right”—though I had said nothing.

 “Even more foolish is bitterness,

though it cleanses the soul to let it out,

like a scrubbing with a little black soap and brimstone. 

It feels nice to rant, half mad, 

to say unjust and terrible things

to an innocent and long-suffering listener.

Like yourself, young señor! To hell (not 

to use stronger language,

but I have some respect for your sensibilities,

which may not yet have been corrupted

by the fashion in profanity that is now all the rage,

young señor!) to hell with this, to hell with that,

to hell with it all! 

“Wherever one looks, there is no matter,

and mind disappeared long ago

from every metaphysician’s backpack. No mind, no

    matter,

just waves of energy crossing uncertain voids,

not even nothing underneath:

the only thing we know is words

that cannot even say it!

   We must be careful,

my friend: only the select have ever heard me this far

(they usually run away!), either they are willing to be 

    corrupted

or they have an espíritus fuertes as antidote

for this poison before it kills their . . . souls. The rest

yawned off in droves: we have the fragrance to ourselves,

the sweet briny aroma

of truth. 

    (Sí sí! Esa palabra sucia! That dirty word! 

Go, vete, foul escéptico académico!

Back, back! Where is my stake

to thrust through your black heart at dawn!

Where is my cross! The terrible count

must be destroyed so we may live in hope

of peace, if not happiness:

Truth is dead! Long live Truth! 

    For what are you,

my friend? A prince in exile, a monarch 

on a burning throne.

Sí, mi amigo! I draw your face in ink on coal

against ashes and night.

“Do not be bitter (so I speak to myself); by all means, do

    not be bitter;

you are not alone, cramped in your little cell

of body, time, brain—though one feels

lonely enough in the mob

of billions on this earth.

“They watch the same moon shrink and grow,

scrounge the sun’s seeds from the brittle earth

and stare, like you, at the blackness behind the stars—

that strangely comforting darkness.

“Unlock the gate a little late you closed 

behind your heart after, like a horse, it fled!” 

I raise my hands to my face in the darkness.

Somewhere someone is praying.

But only silence crosses my lips.

“Oh, mi niño . . . ,” the voice whispers.

“The heart’s fear masks its love.

Its hatred masks its munificence.”

Or do I only imagine it? “There is nothing to dispute,

no cause for quarrel—unless of course

your quarrel is with God! ‘He’s too big

for that,’ someone once said—and,

si, he had a point. And I rejoined: 

Even a mouse in a corner fights

the cat!

“So what if he’s bigger than you? That means

you need to be more cunning than God—

like the one who reigns in the regions below!

Anyway, what could be simpler?

He need but give a clear and simple 

reason for the world he has made, 

and for putting us in the middle of it! 

“Above all else: 

We see through you! Do not think

you can hide behind the atheists. What a brilliant

ploy you thought that was! You do not exist!

Poof! You are now off the hook, and the nihilists

can go wreck the world between their bombs and bottom

    lines.

“The devil’s cleverest trick was convincing us he was a

    fable,

and now you’re trying it out on your own! Nice try, 

    o Señor!

You must have more on your conscience than I thought!”

The pause is washed with a blur of surf,

dimly white, like the old man’s moon-lit shadow.

“Humanity is a fiasco. Let us face it frankly.

Man is a bizarre accident (alas, woman also, 

siento tener que decir—er, sorry to have to say!)—

and probably is alone in the cosmic chaos:

It’s just us and God! Two points of mind

and perverse will, one mortal, one inmortal—

talk about having nothing in common but thin skins 

and a bad temper! Fourteen billion

years of grandstanding between them! What a farce!

Clowns performing for an audience of clowns!

“Am I being cruel? Have you gazed with unjaundiced eye

at your neighbors? At yourself? You are not the exception.

What goes on inside your head, en su corazón?

Dime, what do you see there? No, don’t tell me.

I have had enough despaïr for one evening.”

A gull, pulled from the passing wind, screams

through the night. It’s so dark, I cannot 

see my hand in front of my face—

that is a true phrase.

“The truth,

which you believe does not exist, like God and the devil,

is testing his arrows at the edge of the universe,

that beige and brain-shaped cloud, before he notches 

his bow. It will take less time than forever 

to reach us, entangled as we are, like a ball 

of yarn at the end of a kitten’s hijinks. 

The claw is no less merciless for the sweetness

of the eyes of its owner. The world is lovely,

dark and deep. She is innocent and beautiful and ruthless. 

Dime una mentira para que pueda volver 

a dormir. Tell me a lie so I can sleep again. 

Too many truths have burnt a hole in my brain!

I hear the silence of the arrow—el silencio de la flecha—

as it flies toward me . . .”

_____

Christopher Bernard’s most recent collection of poems is titled The Beauty of Matter, “A Pagan’s Verses for a Mystic Idler.” Señor Despaïr will be available in book form from Real Magazine Productions, a publisher based in India, later this year.

Smoke, Pepper, and Dancing Scars 

I like the smell of smoke and pepper that sits in the air during Christmas. And now that I am telling this story, you should know that that was the only thing I loved about Christmas this year.

It’s December 27th. I’m sitting cold and mad at the psychiatric hospital here at the Lagos Teaching Hospital. Oh yes, real mad, not angry mad. But I’m telling this story, so jokes on them, whoever they are. 

Mum used to call me her prophet, and I always hated that. I asked her once why she called me that and she said I’d only understand if I knew myself and paid more attention to what happens around me. 

I never wanted to come home for Christmas.

…

I lost my train of thoughts. Maybe because the nurse came to torture me yet again, injecting me with ugly liquids. I’ve lost count of how many times she has asked for my name. Today, I answered by reading her name to her from the name plate pinned above her chest. I thought it was funny. She thought it was further proof of my mental instability. Heck, she wrote something down. I regret it now. Let me continue. But I’m not mad. 

…

Christmas had become a religion in my family. It was so systemic and methodical, you could almost say it like a prayer. The harmattan dust clung to the cars outside, pale skies above, windows and doors thrown open with complete disregard for my photosensitivity, curtains tied back, plastic chairs rented from our Muslim neighbors stacked outside, big coolers and big pots everywhere, our loud generator ravaging in the background because NEPA hates festivities, and of course, children running in and out barefoot, some crying like viragos, some spilling food like retards. But for the smoke and pepper. 

My name is Tayo and I’m a prophet. I see things. I went home for Christmas from school, Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, by 3 p.m. on the 25th of December. The house was full of both familiar and unfamiliar faces, all parts of the annual rituals in this Christmas religion. Mum was so happy to see me and started the showoff party to people asking if I remembered them, telling tales of my three-year old self. I guess that was my most adventurous year. I saw my sisters, Tolu and Glory, then my dad, sitting in his special chair with his phone in one hand, then his brother, Uncle Deji, then mum’s best friend, Mrs. Odedele, then dad’s half brother, Uncle Jackson. Now, Uncle Jackson. 

…

My head hurts now. I might pass out. Read the previous paragraph fast-paced because that was how I wrote it because that was how I saw it. Faces flashing past like a film reel on fast-forward, naming them one by one, then suddenly the doctor lunged out at me. They say I started shaking a lot. Another ugly liquid. Where is the nurse? I need another paper. 

…

When I saw Uncle Jackson, he was snacking on the chin-chin the maid, Tolani, placed on the stool in front of him. He looked like a mafia boss lost in thoughts, deliberating his next move, mindlessly like that. He looked different from the last time I saw him, which was four years ago. There was a scar on the left side of his neck, like a burn. I started walking towards him and when he noticed me, it seemed like the scar was alive, breathing, noticing me too. It reached his eyes and when he smiled at me, the scar stiffened. I didn’t like that sight. I reached him and greeted him with a slight bow and a handshake. But Uncle Jackson is a cool uncle, so he hugged me instead. We talked about school, my work, his work, his wife, mostly his wife. But that scar. He noticed me struggling to take my eyes off it, but he didn’t seem to be interested in talking about it. He’s a cool uncle, so I figured maybe I should ask him. “Uncle, what happ…?”

 “Tayo! Tayo! Tolu go and call your brother for me.” 

That was my mum, almost screaming louder than the ravaging generator. He gave me a nod like he was giving me the permission to go to my feisty mum who wouldn’t hesitate to knock my head with a turning stick if I didn’t respond on time, even with my big age. So, no, I didn’t need his permission. 

On the way to meet mum, I knew with the confidence of a seer that something was awfully wrong. She was at the backyard, in the company of the women she hired to help with the large cooking. There was a big pot of water boiling on the firewood, and that too looked wrong. Mum said to pay attention to what happens around me, to know myself. I wasn’t putting my ears to the ground or my eyes to the invisible. I’ve never really been able to pay attention to anything. But something was calling out to me, telling me to look. 

Mum was half-smiling and half-frowning. That combination makes a fake smile and a deadly frown. Thank goodness the smile, though fake, was directed at me. She asked if I had freshened up, why my bag was still on me, called Glory to take it from me. Glory. 

…

Something is dancing in my head. I’ve felt it now for a long time. I keep hitting my head to get it to stop, but it wouldn’t. “What do you remember about the 25th, Mr. Tayo?” “At what point did you ‘realize’ and how? “Mr. Tayo, are you here?” I hate the questions, and of course, the air quote on ‘realize’, but what I hate more? “Mr. Tayo”. 

…

I looked intently at Glory when she came to take my bag. I looked intently because I saw the same scar Uncle Jackson had, on her right hand. It was the ugliest scar I had ever seen. It was breathing too. But hers was worse. It was dancing. I could see it move for real. I was about to ask her about it when mum interrupted me again, the one who asked me to pay attention. She told me to go in and freshen up so that I could eat and help her deliver food to our Muslim neighbors. 

I went in, walking fast, my feet matching the pace of my racing mind. I wondered at the oddities. Christmas was a religion here, but this was a different prayer. On my way to my room, I saw toys littered all over the passage. Water was all over too. They looked untypical. They were creepy, shapeless,… charred. 

…

Smoke and pepper. 

…

I picked one of the toys up and my fingers turned grey with ash. It felt warm, too warm, and soft in the wrong places. 

“Where in the world did these children get ashes from?” I thought.

I got to my room, opened the door, walked in, noticed how carelessly Glory dropped my bag on the bed. Did Glory drop my bag? Had I seen Glory that day? Then I remembered the scar, then Uncle Jackson, and dad, and the women cooking. I started to smell smoke and something else. It wasn’t pepper but something horrid. I dashed out to find out what it was. When I got to the passage again, I didn’t see toys. I blinked hard, but the shapes stayed the same. They were limbs. And the water? It was blood — thick, dark blood. I heard sirens and tried to rush out, but I tripped over a body. Uncle Jackson’s body. Then I blacked out, and now I’m here.

Edit: 

“Mr. Tayo, I read your paper. I am so sorry about the incident, but all that you explained could never have happened. You got a call while you were still in school from the Muslim neighbor you mentioned, telling you there had been a fire accident in your house. That was why you came home. The news must have hit you so hard that you started hallucinating at that level. I am so sorry, but everyone was lost to the fire. The fire was triggered when your late uncle was drunk and threw a knockout under a car.”

She paused for a long time.

“I will leave you now.”

She left.

It was the nurse who kept asking for my name. They let me keep these papers. They say I should keep writing. But all I can think about right now is smoke and pepper and dancing scars. 

Poetess of the Heart — Zulfiya

Zulfiya’s poetry brings a sense of calm and peace to the human heart. In every line of her verses, love, loyalty, and a deep affection for life are embodied. Her poems reveal the delicate emotions of a woman’s soul and reflect the simple yet profoundly important truths of life.

The most common themes in Zulfiya’s works are love, devotion, love for the Motherland, and peace. While reading her poems, a person finds an opportunity to listen to their inner feelings and to better understand life and human emotions.

Zulfiya wrote many well-known poems. For example, the poem “My Son, There Must Be No War” expresses a mother’s inner pain, her fear for her child, and her longing for a peaceful life. Poems such as “Devotion” and “Spring in the Heart” call people toward kindness, patriotism, and faithfulness.

Zulfiya Isroilova is a poetess who brought light into the human soul through her poetry. Her works have not lost their significance even today. The poetess’s writings encourage young people to grow up kind, patriotic, and humane.

Isroilova is a unique poetess who illuminated hearts and awakened emotions with her words. While reading her lines, the reader not only gains information but also deeply feels the subtle aspects of life, human experiences, and valuable lessons. In my opinion, Zulfiya’s creativity encourages us to better understand ourselves and the world around us.

Jeffrey Cyphers Wright received his MFA after studying with Allen Ginsberg. 

A New Romantic poet, he is also a publisher, art and literary critic, eco-activist, impresario, filmmaker, and artist. He is author of 20 books of verse, including Blue Lyre, Party Everywhere, and Doppelängster; Self Portraits in a Funhouse Mirror. Wright publishes Live Mag!  His work appears in Best American Poetry, 2023. He has received a Kathy Acker Award for both publishing and writing. His most recent collection called Fuel for Love, won the James Tate Award for poetry in 2023 and was published by SurVision Books. You can see Wrightt’s films and puppet shows on Youtube.

Hi, Uncle Fun. May I address you by this name? How did you become a poet? When did you write your first poem? What was the state of the American poetry scene when you first started out?

Ha ha. Yes, Yongbo, you may call me Uncle Fun. I am proud of that moniker. Ever since coming to New York in 1976 and falling under the spell of Ted Berrigan and Saint Mark’s, I realized poetry should always be fun. That doesn’t mean it should always be funny. 

When I started out, the scene was morphing from a lot of formalism to include new modes of expression. There were the Beats. Black Mountain College. Bukowski. And then a lot of small presses started up. A D.I.Y. (Do it Yourself) spirit took hold. 

2. What was your breakthrough work or first poetry collection that drew attention from the poetry community?

I had an epiphany in Alice Notley’s workshop at St. Mark’s. Alice had the class do an Oulipo style writing exercise. She told us to write while she read a text out loud. Suddenly it clicked for me. I began cutting and pasting in my mind, creating a sort of high-toned, John Asbury type, faux narrative. The work is called “Malaise in Malaysia,:” It was published by Toothpaste Press (now Coffeehouse Press) with artwork by Yvonne Jacquette.

3. What characteristics distinguish your representative works from those of your contemporaries?

Employment of the Apes, published in 1979, was racy and fast. It was both highbrow and low, mixing vernaculars and textual presentations. It included quotes from my poet friends and influences. It evoked a sense of family. I was raising two sons with my partner. Not everybody had kids. Importantly, the book also included visual works from Alice Notley, Andrei Codrescu, others, and myself. 

My latest book, Erato’s Inbox, An AI-Luminated Manuscript, continues to be racy and include artwork. I asked AI image generators to portray lines from the book-length poem. Like Employment of the Apes, this book relied on some collaboration, notably from publisher and designer Barbara Rosenthal of Xanadu Press.

My work still highlights imagery, wordplay, lyricism, and persona. It is at once very formal and very spontaneous. It contains more surrealist imagery than my peers. And I think I have more anthropomorphism than much of American poetry. I let nature do the talking sometimes. Even if it’s urban nature, like a nightclub or a train window. 

There’s a haute punk troubadour element that is authentic to the East Village where I’ve lived so long. My work also reflects a broad exposure to American mythology. I’ve lived in ten states (plus London). My persona is grand and aspires to be a folk hero, projecting a winning attitude and providing evidence of a moral core.

4. What stages of development has your poetry gone through? What are the representative works and main themes of each stage? Could you elucidate them with specific poem examples?

My first real poem was New Romantic though I didn’t start using that term for another decade. “The day you left… left scars in the sky where stars fled, the drawers full of blood, washed and folded like so many days.” 

It had lyric lines and surreal images just as I do now. But it did not yet have much texture or many different voices coming in. It was basically a break up poem. I think the sense of trying to unite with an “other” has always been my main theme.

I began writing sonnets in earnest in graduate school at Brooklyn College. The love poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt especially hit me. I also had “The Sonnets” by Ted Berrigan to encourage and enlighten me. Free-form poetry and open field poetry offered too many choices about how to present words on a page. The sonnet form gave me structure. For similar reasons, I also like to write haiku. Because of the structure, but also because of the erudite, civilized content that is associated with these two forms.

Walking on Words from 1996, Vendetta/Iniquity Press (with a cover by Ron English), was fairly developed in content and lyricism. Flourish, from 2004, was my first book of all sonnets — all of them with differing stanza arrangements.

5. Which postmodern school do you belong to? What is your view on the role of postmodernism, and what changes has it brought to American poetry?

Well, it’s funny, because there are so many currents, from prose poems to hybrid texts like Claudia Rankine’s popular book Citizen. There’s an academic tradition that is about precision and reference and confessional, narrative poems. There’s spoken word and rap-style poetics and confessional poems and identity poems. There are eco poems and resistance poems. Experimental poems. I’ve used Flarf techniques, which is a response to the internet in some ways, offering countless cut-up possibilities. 

There’s not much consensus but there is endless style. All poets probably want their poems to have relevance. And there are different ways to get there. I’m drawn to poems that project a contemporary persona but have a deep knowledge of history, art, religion, mythology, and literature. I like to see reflections of former literature resonating in newer work. I try to keep up as much as I can, old and new. As my girlfriend says, “You should read twenty poems to write one.”

6. You have three renowned teachers: Allen Ginsberg, Ted Berrigan, and Alice Notley. What did they teach you?

Great question. Allen was very much about meter and milieu. He said to me, “If you aren’t writing by meter, you’re writing by the seat of your pants.” And I very much was — I actually wanted my work to come from the edge. Every line to stand alone. As my style developed I became more aware of meter. Visually, I didn’t want lines that were too long or too short. This forced the poems to scan. Now my poems have meter. 

Ted was very inspiring. He was a great reader, his voice was full of timbre, indicating variously, authority, humor, love — pathos. He told me that a poem didn’t have to be perfect. It just had to work. That has saved many of my poems. 

Ted also said to “Write with radio on.” He meant that we should let the world into our poems. That was directional and liberating. Ted also gave me a model of a totally dedicated artist. And he liked the adage: “A bad poet borrows, a good poet steals.”

Alice — Alice had a voice that fused poetry and life. So many of Alice’s poems are heartbreaking. “Who will know the desolation of St. Mark’s Place / With Alice Notley’s name forgotten and / This night never having been.”

She recognized my musicality and my sense of being in the moment. She wrote in preface to All in All (Gull Books, 1986) “Jeff Wright knows how to be, on the page, both in his house & in his imagination.” Alice reenforced the qualities that made me a New Romantic.

7. Which poets, predecessors and contemporaries, have had a significant influence on you? 

My father could recite two poems: Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven” and Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan.” I loved Walt Whitman in Junior High School. When I was 15 our English teacher introduced us to ee cummings and I was in awe of the freedom he offered. That’s when I begin writing in earnest. 

Before I came to New York, I was studying poetry at West Virginia University. Jayne Anne Phillips, the recent Pulitzer Prize winning novelist, was there and encouraged me. I had a job at the library which happened to have an amazing collection of foreign poets.

I was hugely inspired by Lorca and Mayakovsky. At the time I thought the American poetics were academic, stilted and overwrought. I did gravitate towards the more surrealist poetics of Robert Bly, James Wright, and Bill Knott. John Berryman. Prior to that, I had been inspired by T.S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas. Also, I’ve always felt a sense of kinship with Asian traditions, giants such as Li Po, Tu Fu, and Wang Wei. Some modern Chinese poets I admire greatly include Lao Zhin, Li Shangyin,  and Duo Duo. And you! You strike me as a New Romantic too.

Elaine Equi is another New Romantic contemporary poet who embraces magic and fairy tales in her work. She also uses titles very well. Her work showed me the advantage of integrating titles in a more direct way to orient a reader and also to focus on my message. 

A decade ago, Alex Lemon’s book Hallelujah Blackout shook me up and gave my syntax a fresh direction. He was mashing words together with hyphens to heighten their urgency and immediacy. I used this technique in Triple Crown (Spuyten Duyvil, 2013): “lurch-walking on wracked limbs.”  

8. You have been called “a known New York impresario of spoken word and the oral tradition.” Please talk about your explorations in poetic language.

My first poetic home was St. Mark’s Church. At one time I would go to two or three readings a week, plus attend workshops. The oral traditions that had grown out of the Beats combined with the conversational lilt of the New York School. People found their distinctive voice as they read their own work to each other. 

Within a year of moving to New York I began a reading series with Jim Brodey. We had Anne Waldman and Ron Padgett read and a lot of our own contemporaries like Bob Holman and Eileen Myles. Since then I’ve organized and hosted hundreds of readings and published hundreds of poets. As a master of ceremonies, it’s my job to welcome the audience and introduce the readers. I guess this aspect of the poetry business has influenced my poetry, giving me confidence and practice in getting people to listen. I’ve been trying to understand what they want to hear. 

9. In the early 1990s, you invented “New Romanticism,” a poetic movement that is at once joyous, communal, erotic, and spontaneous. Blue Lyre (Dos Madres Press, 2013) is, in a sense, the culmination of New Romanticism. Please discuss the main contributions of New Romanticism and how it differs from traditional Romanticism. Also, could you share two of your most satisfying poems from Blue Lyre?

I realized that my main muse was my lover. That my persona was addressing a significant other. So there was a sense of intimacy, as if I were talking directly to the reader. So often, my favorite poems by others are their romantic works, such as Captain’s Verses by Pablo Neruda. 

When I was introduced to Sir Thomas Wyatt, I was struck by the currency. I could feel his doomed love! I incorporated that fire and updated it to reflect the New York School.

These are from Blue Lyre.

COME ON NOW

Evening stoops under its sodden shawl.

A siren broods; its caterwaul

snarling over blackened roofs.

Someone’s on the run.

Wet tires whisper to Avenue C.

“I’m lost without you,” they swear.

I wanted to be a matador

in Manhattan, dancing with horns.

I wanted to be a genie

smoking in your coat of arms.

While you gave the raindrops names,

I made up a little song called 

“You’ll never be happier 

than when I was a string on your harp.”

ECHO’S CHAMBER

        Mutual love is the law of human life.

—Leo Tolstoy

A fat moon trundles across the sky,

a Mac truck with one headlight. 

I sleep alone in night’s salon

pining like a nut.

The only thing better

than one guitar is two guitars,

your sunglasses reflecting my eyes

in July’s jonquiled haze. 

Resistance is futile.

Whatever you say.

The DJ is my best friend.

Gulls laugh at love’s slaughter.

I hear you rule with an iron caress.

My ears blaze in your absence.

Like the original Romantics, there is passion, emotion, drama, and nostalgia — an awareness of the ghostly past and an expression of our mortal state. New Romanticism has incorporated the deities of our own day to augment those of the past. 

As the term New Romanticism implies, it’s an update in natural speech.  “The DJ is my best friend,” could be compared to “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came.” There is also a rebellious aspect. The Romantics, in addition to contemporizing speech patterns, were in some part promoting pastoral scenes because of the horrors of the Industrial Age. Likewise, New Romantics are reacting to the inhumanity that can be found in the age of the internet. And like the original Romantics, we represent a revival.

But to be clear, I didn’t invent New Romanticism. It was a cultural phenomenon of beginning in the late 1970s and 80s. It largely came out of the music and accompanying fashion scene in London as a reaction to the austerity of Punk Rock and revamping the fun of Glam Rock. There is also a current in classical music (John Adams). There are also artists (Ross Bleckner, Phyllis Bramson). Robert Charboneau recently wrote an essay about why he is a New Romantic. It had a lot to do with renewal.

10. Speaking of Elaine Equi, she said, “He’s both a poet and DJ for our times — riffing off sights, sounds, songs, and language to create the ultimate cultural remix!” I really like her comment, especially “cultural remix,” which might be an important feature of your poetry. Is this related to your collages? You once summarized your work yourself: “There is a collage quality to my poems — juxtapositions of images, shifting scales and perspectives. A palette of varying textures. Rhyming shapes. Different directional focuses. The collage is built and the poem is too — with a lot of pondering, structuring, and conjuring.” Could you elaborate on this and provide specific examples from your poems?

Yes! Collage is by its nature a remix. I once listed five things I tried to include in my collages. A drawing by me, antique paper, rubber stamps, asemic writing or faux graffiti, and rock and roll stickers. This gave me a base to begin with. The five things can be compared to elements and cultural signifiers in my lexicon: Nature, love, musical lyrics or references, quotes. The sense of a party. And of course I want to use artifice in terms of metaphors, alliteration, rhyme, and cadence.

“Cantata” is a good example of a cultural remix. The title references a Baroque musical style. The poem begins with distress. The first five lines describe  a drought. Then the poem segues with the line, “Invisible forces carry us along.” This opens the poem to the cri de coeur that follows: “I am a prisoner of hope.”

CANTATA

Drought robs the sycamores, plucking

leaves in June. A breeze pushes them

into a swarm of withered pages

rasping anxiously across the court.

Then stillness. They die back down.

Invisible forces carry us along.

I am a prisoner of hope.

A congress of loneliness. A dry tear.

An old motor sputters before purring. 

Empty boxcars couple with a boom.

Copying Ovid’s playbook, I hold out

for change. Home is made of wings.

Thunder clears its throat but won’t sing.

The goal in life is joy. Today sun reigns.

The images have metaphoric weight beyond there literalness: “Empty boxcars couple with a boom.” The word empty emphasizes the loneliness previously mentioned. It also suggests the romantic and erotic with the “couple” and the “boom,” which could be interpreted as signs of hidden strength. Like Ovid in exile,  the poet will “hold out.” He finds the needed resolution: “Home is made of wings.” 

The poem goes back for one more image (of sound this time). The thunder promises rain but doesn’t deliver. It won’t “sing.” Then the poem switches back to its obdurate optimism with “The goal in life is joy.” And now we have our resolution, our statement. 

The last line is both fatalistic and idealistic. The final word “reigns” is a homonym for rains, giving the poem a surprising echo. And so the poem comes back to the first word “Drought” in an unexpected, opposite way. And the title, “Cantata” is echoed in the next to last line: “sing” which represents a euphemism for rain. 

One can look at a poem in many ways. When I deconstruct the poems for myself I am amazed at the connections I didn’t build in but noticed later. It’s a mystery.

11. What evaluations have scholars and fellow poets made of your poetry? How do you define your own position and contributions in contemporary American poetry?

The late, great Hugh Seidman wrote that my artifice “took it over the top” while my “vulnerability saved the day.” My peers appreciate my sense of fun while recognizing my lyric qualities. I’m known for meaningful wordplay and sonic imagery. This wordplay is evident aurally (“Malaise in Malaysia”) but also in twisted cliches and double entendres. “Peter the Great” for instance is a historic figure but is also a phallic joke. I think my sonnets’ final couplets are well regarded. I call that last couplet “the Hammer.”

I’ve also received a Kathy Acker Award and a James Tate Award. 

12. Andrei Codrescu called you “our grand lyric master” and “Sextus Propertius in NY.” I’m interested in how these two titles came about. I also want to discuss with you: Is lyricism possible in the contemporary era? I believe that human beings are already in an alienated relationship with others, and in such a situation, even if we engage in lyricism, it cannot be done in the way Keats did. What is your view on the lyrical elements in contemporary poetry or the legitimacy of lyric poetry?

I hear you about being alienated. People ask how can one write about flowers when people are being killed. But language is something we share. It’s free. Poetry, at its heart, is an emotional sport. Rigor, discipline, intuition, feelings — they all help shape the poem and lead to solace, wisdom, and connection. I think poetry addresses a spiritual longing that most humans possess. And lyricism is a very powerful tool. To eschew lyricism in poetry would be like saying no melodies in music. And actually, for me, the lyricism offers direction — the alliteration or assonance or rhyme — suggesting the next word or line. Like “Malaise” calls out to “Malaysia.”

Andrei Codrescu is a real treasure. We’re so lucky to have him in New York now. Andrei is referring to a quote I used by Sextus Propertius. The quote opens the “Come Ons” section of Blue Lyre. He’s trying to get a girl. Written over two thousand years ago, the lines still ring true. Also, my friend Vincent Katz has translated his work and made it very accessible.

13. Besides writing poetry, what other literary or artistic endeavors have you engaged in?

I have kept journals and dream diaries. I’ve written four plays. I’ve written lots of poetry and art criticism. I’ve also written many introductions and blurbs. For many years I taught various subjects including poetry. I’ve run three different magazines. I published Hard Press which produced 80 postcards of others’ art and poetry. I’ve edited two anthologies. 

I grew up at a time in America where there were many opportunities. I took music lessons and played in a school band. I learned how to play harmonica and guitar. I have an album of songs on Eat Records called Later Than You Think. The title is about the Climate Crisis. When the pandemic hit, I made a puppet show for my granddaughter. It’s called Pandemic Puppet Jam and it’s on Youtube with several other films I’ve made. A biographic film about me is on Vimeo. It’s called Cuckoo O’Clock.

And then there’s collage. When I was 27, I started doing collages as birthday cards and still do. Artist friends encouraged me and gave me materials. I stretched my repertoire to include drawing, stenciling, rubber stamps, antique paper and graffiti-like markings. I was involved with the Mail Art movement. I’ve been included in several art shows including one at the legendary Tribes Gallery in the East Village.

14. Is New York the core of American poetry? If so, please tell me about your relationship with the New York poetry community. If it is only one of the cores, what are the other cores, and are there any iconic figures you are familiar with?

Well, there’s certainly San Francisco and the Bay Area. Boston. New Orleans. But the scene in New York is so sprawling. You can go to art openings and mix with the artists and critics. You can go to readings practically every night. You can go uptown and hear  professors and authors with books from big publishers and you can go downtown and hear counter culture poetry in clubs and bars. That overlap is amazing. And everyone wants to come here and read at some point so you can sample everything that’s out there.

15. You are also an active advocate of performance poetry Please share your thoughts on this.

Reading a poem to a devoted audience creates a communion in the room. Every one is “on the same page,” so to speak. All of that energy is concentrated on the poem and the meanings it generates. It’s very spiritual and life affirming. The sense of community keeps people alive. Really.  

16. Which young poets are you paying attention to now, and why?

I like Sharon Mesmer, Ama Birch, Anton Yakovlev, Joanna Furhman, Ana Bosicevic, Adeena Karasick, Noelle Kocot, Brendan Lorber. They each have found compelling new ways to examine the self and its relationship to the system. I find a lot of inspiration in foreign poets too. I’m currently reading Jeanette Lozano Clarion, a Spanish poet, translated by Forrest Gander. She’s got the right amount of beautiful despair and triumph.

August 20, 2025

Ma Yongbo

THE ROLE OF DIGITAL PLATFORMS IN LANGUAGE LEARNING

Author: Xolmurotova Gulzoda

Email: xolmurotovagulzoda176@gmail.com

ORCID: 0009-0005-3928-3348

University: National University of Uzbekistan

Field of study: Foreign Language and Literature (English)

   Annotation: This article analyzes the role and importance of digital platforms in the language learning process. The main aim of the research is to identify the positive and negative effects of digital platforms on language learning. During the study, survey, analysis, and observation methods were used. The results show that digital platforms increase learners’ motivation, expand opportunities for independent learning, and play a significant role in developing language skills.

   Abstract: This article examines the role and significance of digital platforms in the process of language learning. The primary objective of the study is to identify the positive and negative impacts of digital platforms on language acquisition. Survey, analysis, and observation methods were employed during the research. The findings indicate that digital platforms enhance learners’ motivation, broaden opportunities for self-directed learning, and play an important role in improving language skills.

   Аннотация: В данной статье анализируется роль и значение цифровых платформ в процессе изучения языка. Основной целью исследования является выявление положительного и отрицательного влияния цифровых платформ на изучение языков. В ходе исследования были использованы методы анкетирования, анализа и наблюдения. Результаты показывают, что цифровые платформы повышают мотивацию обучающихся, расширяют возможности самостоятельного обучения и играют важную роль в развитии языковых навыков.

   Keywords: digital platforms, language learning, online education, mobile applications, digital technologies, independent learning, educational effectiveness.

Introduction

This article highlights the advantages of digital platforms designed for language learning and their significance among young people. Over the past decade, digital technologies have become an integral part of our lives, creating numerous new opportunities. In particular, digital platforms are widely used to improve the quality of education and to facilitate the learning of foreign languages. Today, young people in Uzbekistan also actively benefit from these platforms. Applications such as Duolingo, Memrise, and HelloTalk are considered the most popular and widely used platforms. Currently, anyone interested in learning a language can use these platforms, as the lessons provided in these applications are designed in a simple and easy-to-understand manner.

Research Methodology

This study aims to examine the significance of digital platforms in the process of language learning, employing survey and observation methods. The research was conducted in 2025 at the National University of Uzbekistan. More than 150 students and members of the public participated in the study. The main objective of the research was to identify the positive impact and overall importance of digital platforms in language learning.

Within the framework of the study, a questionnaire was conducted based on the following questions: Which platforms do you use for language learning? Which applications are widely used today? According to the survey results, most participants responded positively to these questions; however, some respondents indicated a preference for traditional language courses over digital platforms. The findings demonstrate that digital platforms are an important tool in the language learning process.

Literature Review

In recent years, many scholars have conducted scientific research on this topic. For example, Chapelle emphasized in her research that language learning through digital platforms is both beneficial and effective. The author states that digital technologies serve as an important tool in developing language skills. Similarly, Godwin-Jones examined the language learning process through mobile applications and found that platforms such as Duolingo and Memrise help increase learners’ motivation. According to the study, these platforms provide learners with convenient and flexible learning opportunities.

In addition, Australian researcher Glenn Stockwell demonstrated in his studies that the use of online platforms provides a strong foundation for developing independent learning in language education. He also emphasized that online language learning contributes to the development of learners’ vocabulary and grammatical skills. The above studies indicate that digital platforms play a significant role in language learning.

Analysis and Results

More than 150 students and members of the public participated in the study. The research identified the role of digital platforms in the language learning process and determined which applications are most widely used. According to the survey results, Duolingo was identified as the most popular platform with the largest number of users. Specifically, 42% of respondents reported using this platform. Additionally, 18% of respondents selected the Memrise application.

At the same time, 20% of participants indicated that they still prefer traditional language courses, while the remaining respondents stated that they use blended learning methods. The results show that the importance of digital platforms in the language learning process is steadily increasing and that these platforms contribute significantly to the development of independent learning.

Discussion

This study clearly demonstrates the significance of digital platforms in the language learning process. The majority of respondents explained their preference for Duolingo and Memrise applications by their convenience, ease of use, and opportunities for independent learning. In particular, it was emphasized that Duolingo’s gamified exercises and its ability to consistently engage users help increase learners’ interest and motivation. Moreover, the fact that more than 130 million users currently use the Duolingo application highlights its popularity and effectiveness.

At the same time, some respondents expressed a preference for traditional language courses. This tendency can be explained by the importance of face-to-face interaction with teachers and receiving direct explanations for certain learners and students. The remaining participants preferred blended learning methods, stating that combining digital and traditional education accelerates the learning process. Overall, the findings indicate that digital platforms play an important role in increasing learners’ motivation and promoting independent learning.

Conclusion

The results of this study show that the role of digital tools in language learning is steadily increasing. The findings of the conducted survey also confirm this trend. It was found that regular use of digital platforms has a positive impact on the development of language skills. However, digital education should not completely replace traditional education; rather, it should be considered an effective supplementary tool. In conclusion, proper and purposeful use of digital platforms plays a significant role in improving the effectiveness of the language learning process.

References

1.Chapelle, C. A. (2001). Computer Applications in Second Language Acquisition. Cambridge University Press.

2.Godwin-Jones, R. (2009). Emerging technologies: Mobile apps for language learning. Language Learning & Technology, 15(2), 2–11.

3.Hubbard, P. (2009). Computer-assisted language learning: Critical concepts in linguistics. Language Teaching, 42(3), 291–310.

4.Kukulska-Hulme, A., & Shield, L. (2008). An overview of mobile assisted language learning. ReCALL, 20(3), 271–289. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0958344008000335�

5.Stockwell, G. (2010). Using mobile phones for vocabulary activities: Examining the effect of platform. Language Learning & Technology, 14(2), 95–110.

6.Warschauer, M. (1996). Computer-assisted language learning: An introduction. In M. Warschauer (Ed.), Multimedia language teaching (pp. 3–20). Logos International.

Hindsight

He remembers

When she told him

That she thought

They were in a weird place

And he remembers 

Thinking about that

And then he moved in with her

Which was very exciting

And in hindsight

A huge mistake.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”

Thought Awakened Through Criticism

Every historical period creates its own literary environment, aesthetic views, and standards. However, evaluating the literary process correctly understanding its essence rather than its surface requires profound thought, independent opinion, and a critical eye. One of the figures of such high intellect in the development of Uzbek literary criticism was Ozod Sharafiddinov. He was an intellectual who viewed literature not merely as a creative product, but as a force that educates the mindset of society.

In the eyes of Ozod Sharafiddinov, literature is not just a tool for aesthetic pleasure; it is an arena that shapes human spirituality and awakens social consciousness. For this reason, in evaluating a work of art, he paid special attention to internal content, ideological depth, and the author’s responsibility rather than external beauty. In his critical activities, the priority was not to belittle or deny the author, but to encourage them to think more deeply.

Although Ozod Sharafiddinov’s literary views were closely linked to his time, he never chose the path of conforming to the era. He sharply criticized artificiality, formality, and stereotyped thinking in the literary process. According to him, true literature is valuable not only for responding to the demands of the times but for its ability to reveal the internal world of a human being. Therefore, he saw the creator as a person responsible first before society, and even more so, before their own conscience.

Ozod Sharafiddinov considered criticism an essential tool for the development of literature. He understood criticism not as passing judgment, but as analysis and dialogue. In his articles, justice is clearly felt alongside sharpness, and objectivity alongside demandingness. It is this very aspect that made his school of criticism unique and enduring.

In today’s era of globalization and rapid information, Ozod Sharafiddinov’s views are crucial for the youth. He valued contemplation over haste and independent thought over imitation. His literary heritage teaches today’s students and young people to look at a work with a critical eye and to feel the responsibility behind every word.

In my opinion, Ozod Sharafiddinov was not a critic who evaluated literature from the outside, but a thinker who lived within it and felt its pain. He approached the literary process not as a spectator, but as an active participant. His ideas continue to serve as an important resource in shaping the literary thinking of young creators and students today.

In conclusion, in the eyes of Ozod Sharafiddinov, time is transient, while literature is an eternal phenomenon. He sought to change the mindset, not the era. Therefore, his literary views remain relevant today and are recognized as the solid foundation of Uzbek literary criticism.

   By Nozima Gofurova

3rd-year student at the University of Journalism and Mass Communications of Uzbekistan, specializing in Travel Journalism.