Beyond the Extraordinary or of Joseph Conrad (Experience, Language, Hard Work, and Genius)
Many of the scholars and documentaries and such rightly claim that numerous things contributed to Joseph Conrad’s highly successful and monumental canon of literature. They point out his multiple languages, plus a passion for the sea and written word, and the study and hard work, plus an immense dedication to craft and truth both. But, though that’s all obviously true, in reading him there is something more, and it’s that he was possessed of genius. And in two ways.
One part of his genius was in seeing, and he himself said that above all he wanted to make people see. And the other half was in expression, in writing. He saw and he wrote. Many people speak multiple languages, and several are writers and poets, but is there anyone that can turn every sentence into gold like Conrad? Little or few. And in a climate modern where sparseness and brevity is lauded as a fashion for some odd reason, his golden descriptive sentences shine even brighter, turning the idea of telling a story into something immensely valuable. Conrad can show the way back to true storytelling and literature.
Therefore, it is a sea worker’s life and experience, the languages, the interest, and hard work, but, nature or God also added genius to the mix. If you look closely, even though there are several that can turn sentences that are extraordinary, there are few that can go beyond the extraordinary into something else entirely.
With these words, a door slams shut in a distant wood.
The fire flickers for a moment,
a thoughtful face brightening and dimming.
With these words, the planet quickly splits into many more.
On one side lies a desolate sea,
on the other, a barren desert.
Quadrilateral light rises in the night sky,
compressed by an inner reflux,
shifting among several possibilities.
Streets keep branching out from where he stands,
branching more and more
past every monument they meet.
Night falls like a curtain around his feet,
he is a statue waiting to be unveiled,
magma glowing inside him.
Refuse to Wake
In the south of the Yangtze in March, grass grows and warblers fly,
yet I still feel no warmth.
My heart remains like a block of chemically infused ice,
I have tried every means to thaw it,
all in vain, wine no longer ignites passion.
I have nothing to say to anyone, save for teaching
and going to the cafeteria. I lock myself away indoors,
drawing all curtains to block the unkind light.
I know the outside world is still the same outside.
Nature runs by a cruel law—
no mercy, no love, only mutual devouring.
A magpie pecks a soft thing on the lawn,
flies up to the bare branches of a parasol tree,
its tail vibrating to keep balance.
All things kill one another to survive,
The universe drifts toward heat death.
I hurry to read on the south balcony while daylight lasts,
I read only books written by saints—
they murmur in deserts, on pillars, or in caves,
words no one can make out,
yet I possess endless patience for this.
Sunlight occasionally illuminates a fragile sentence,
like a spotlight framing an actor fainting in slow motion.
My longing for spiritual experience overwhelms all other needs,
yet those words and logics still bring no warmth,
sunlight reveals more dust.
I believe there is One who governs human history,
I believe local evil may be global good,
I believe when I turn the final page of the book,
something unprecedented will happen.
Yet my heart still tightens. I refuse to wake
to the still heavy reality.
I have spent my whole life in escape.
Late Night in Early March
Deep into the night of early spring,
darkness and spring water flow down the southern slopes of Purple Mountain,
only silent cars occasionally glide past on the street.
I carry Whitman’s heavy Moments of the Soul,
and a bottle of hometown liquor long out of production.
A full decade has passed,
and eight years since you journeyed north to the capital.
Everything has changed, yet nothing seems to have changed at all,
haggardness lingers, unhidden by white hair and night,
two crabs raise their claws and touch,
they will cross the vast starry sky, one after another.
Ancient Town of Tongli, our wandering with two kitchen knives,
Yancheng in Changzhou, frogs croaking amid our rain filling shoes,
the golden glow of rapeseed blooms hides in remote mountains,
the moon and fireflies of Linggu Temple—
I have never seen them again since that day.
This is not our hometown after all,
but where on earth can we call home?
At a small Hot Pot inn, only the two of us remain,
bright lights hang empty, midnight has long passed,
I feel uneasy, time and again, for the inn owner’s toil.
One more drink, brother,
those scattered lights of our conversation
are a silence growing deeper in the dead of night—
concerning faith, like the faint chill of early spring nipping at my shoulders,
ten years ago I came here, at the very age you are now.
Nothing has changed, the earth turns gently,
I watch the taxi’s red taillights flicker and fade away,
a cool wind brushes my fevered forehead,
I stand long on the empty street,
Staring up at the bare treetops of plane trees
rising higher and higher against the stars.
Evening at Longhill Lake
Wooden villas, sounds crystallized with fragrance,
abstract murals pieced from small blocks of wood.
Lake before, hills behind—
wild expanse, high sky.
Here one may drink and sing aloud,
or keep silence with the wilderness.
The sun sinks west;
a soft breeze drifts like a ship’s wake.
Heaven and earth seem to wait
for a solemn rite to begin.
I need not speak, nor think at all—
abide in a happy, plant-like state:
swaying with the wind, yet still in time.
Twilight falls quietly like a fishing net,
autumn crickets chirp,
dried cow dung glows with its last light,
like pale yellow window paper
soaked soft into pulp,
breathing the scent of paste and raw flour.
The Final Room
You write poems in your final room,
I translate poems in mine,
between us lies the silence of a whole continent,
and a gray, early winter.
You look up now and then toward the far shore,
shadows of trees, an overturned boat,
the deep-yellow roof of a temple,
gradually, you lose track of which afternoon it is—
much as my writing hand moves slower.
Has your Keatsian unease and the fog-shrouded plain,
vanished for a moment? As I set down these lines—
no man is an island, entire of itself or sufficient alone,
as I hesitate between two versions.
By now you must have finished that afternoon poem,
rising, you step onto the balcony to smoke,
glance back at the emptied room,
then gaze long at the wrinkled surface of the lake.
When I pause my work, twilight floods the window
like crowds of murmuring ghosts,
scattering and hiding in rooms that recede one by one,
turn on the light, brother—we are far apart.
Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 10 poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell Williams, Ashbery and Rosanna Warren. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies.
Sometimes, an unexpected “single day” can leave an indelible mark on one’s memory for years to come. For me, one such day began as a routine university lecture but transformed into a face-to-face encounter with history.
Our first class of the day was a lecture on “Historical and Cultural Tourism,” taught by our mentor, Akbar Nurmatov. I walked into the auditorium still a bit drowsy from the morning. However, my professor’s unexpected announcement instantly jolted the entire group awake:
“We haven’t been anywhere together this semester,” he remarked.
Shortly after, another piece of news followed: we would be continuing today’s lesson at the Center of Islamic Civilization. It turned out that special permission had been secured directly from the rectorate for our subsequent classes as well.
To be honest, I had been longing to visit this place for a long time. Hearing the news, my heart swelled with joy. One of the most heartwarming moments was when Professor Nurmatov arranged for us to enter the center free of charge. For us students, this was a wonderful opportunity.
As we reached the entrance, a wave of excitement washed over me. We were welcomed by Oktam Usmonov, the head of the center’s press service. Interestingly, he was also one of our professor’s former students. Truly, the saying “it’s a small world” felt more relevant than ever.
The moment I stepped inside, I froze in awe. At that point, Oktam Usmonov turned to our professor and asked:
“Teacher, do you have any students who are good writers or proficient in foreign languages?”
With a smile, the professor called me forward and said:
“For now, this girl is the one who truly holds her own.”
In that moment, a profound sense of pride filled my soul. A thought crossed my mind: “I wish my father could hear these words and feel proud of me…”
Our journey began in the first hall. Here, artworks crafted from colored stones delighted the eyes, seemingly transporting us into the past. As I climbed the stairs, my eyes fell upon the portraits of the Jadids. A shiver ran through my body not of fear, but of a deep sense of belonging to our national history.
The exhibitions start from the First Renaissance. The history of ancient cities like Dalvarzintepa and Sopollitepa, along with archaeological finds, felt like silent pages of a thousand-year-old history speaking to us. Every exhibit manifested the intellect and spiritual wealth of our ancestors.
The next section was dedicated to the Second Renaissance an era where science, culture, and thought flourished. Witnessing that atmosphere, the thought “If only I had lived in that time” even crossed my mind.
The section that moved me most was the one dedicated to Imam Bukhari. Tears welled up in my eyes when I saw an ancient manuscript of “Sahih al-Bukhari.” It wasn’t just a book; it is a priceless heritage for the entire Islamic world. We also learned about the manuscripts and lives of great scholars like Ahmad al-Farghani, Hakim Termizi, Ibn Sino, Abu Mansur Maturidi, and Abu Rayhon Beruni. Seeing their legacy, the wisdom “Those who serve the people remain in the hearts of the people” echoed in my mind.
Next, we entered the Holy Qur’an Hall. It is difficult to describe the atmosphere there. It felt as if time had stood still, and my soul had finally found tranquility.
During our tour, we also visited the state-of-the-art library, which is awaiting its official opening. The head of the library served as our guide. Honestly, I had never seen such a sophisticated and perfect library before. It even features a specialized disinfection system for books; once a book is read, it is sanitized to remove viruses and microbes. Seeing such care only increased my respect for this sanctuary of knowledge.
In conclusion, of all the places I have seen in my 21 years, the Center of Islamic Civilization has become one of the closest to my heart. It is more than just a museum; it is a vast temple of learning that carries the scientific and spiritual legacy of our ancestors to future generations.
At this point, it is worth highlighting the creation of such a magnificent center in our country. This sanctuary brings our people’s history to life, reaffirming the truth that “a nation that knows its past shall have a bright future.”
Our profound gratitude goes to our President, Shavkat Mirziyoyev, for reviving our nation’s heritage and for bringing back ancient historical artifacts from foreign museums so that we may truly know our roots.
And finally, a huge thank you to our mentor, Akbar Nurmatov, who, much like parents who wish only the best for their children, provided us with the very best experiences and etched these unforgettable moments into our memories.
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. The 3 time Best of The Net nominee and two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he’s been widely published over the years. Most recently at Yellow Mama, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative and Disturb the Universe Magazine. His latest book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available by going here: https://a.co/d/01WIoaxo
While the rest of the submarines are off patrolling the oceans.
With sonar ears and gangly periscope eyes.
Waiting for their shore leave.
An opportunity to hit the links.
Your
life can be in park
even if you don’t drive
that is what
they never tell you
once they get
around to not telling
you things.
Steve Jobs
ate his food raw
and would always lease a car
for 6 months
because anything longer
required a license and registration
under California law
so that every six months
Steve Jobs would drop off his car
at the dealership
and drive a new one
off the lot
behind that steering wheel
that had just been waiting
for its turn at the helm.
Question
What’s wrong with losing your mind?
You may find it all over again.
And never in the way or place
they told you.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, SynchronizedChaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
Rome. An astonishing Mega-Event and Spectacle dedicated to Dante Alighieri on Via Margutta—a Street linked to Fellini, Picasso, Gregory Peck, Audrey Hepburn. Billy Wilder Celebrated in SF and Naples.
By Federico Wardal
Rome. In early December of last year, *Il Messaggero*—a newspaper that frequently reaches one million readers a day—published a massive article about me (https://www.ilmessaggero.it/roma/eventi/wardal_amato_da_fellini_da_hollywood-9232025.html?refresh_ce), an article that would restore my full renown throughout Italy. Around Christmastime, a magical encounter took place between myself and Tina and Teresa Zurlo—the curators of one of Europe’s most important art galleries.
It is located at number 90 on the legendary Via Margutta, this street is inextricably linked to my mentor, Federico Fellini (who lived at number 110), as well as to Pablo Picasso; it is also famously known as the setting for the film *Roman Holiday*, starring Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn, which was filmed at number 51.
Via Margutta also played a starring role during the years of Fellini’s *La Dolce Vita* and the era of his paparazzi—foremost among them the globally famous and celebrated Rino Barillari, known as “The King.”
During our meeting, the Zurlo sisters and I discussed Fellini, as well as a major exhibition dedicated to him by the renowned painter Mario Russo—an event graced by the exceptional presence of his daughter, the famous actress Adriana Russo, serving as its godmother. However, as I was unable to return to Rome due to filming commitments in Hollywood, I sent a video message offering my greetings and recalling my personal bond with Fellini. The video proved to be a great success, and the brilliant Zurlo sisters subsequently informed me that they wanted me to serve as the absolute star of a grand event dedicated to the “Supreme Poet ” Dante Alighieri—an event that would extend into a subsequent tribute to Pier Paolo Pasolini and Dario Bellezza.
Inspired, I bring forth—from “the strata of the rock of history”—a short theatrical piece titled: *Dante, Pasolini, Dario Bellezza, Wardal: Infernal… all of them*. It is a reverse journey for the poet Virgil, who guides Dante into the contemporary world of Pasolini, Dario Bellezza (a friend of mine), and myself. Enrico Bernard—a playwright and director of exceptional caliber—directs me; the popular flutist Andrea Ceccomori graces the performance with magical musical moments (much like in the film *Anita*); and Antonio Zaru has designed for me a floor-length tunic of “Inferno-red” sequins.
My entrance is planned to take place from a luxurious automobile—naturally, also “Inferno-red.” An event constructed from such elements—never before blended in this way—has already circled the globe before it has even taken place. The glamour enveloping the event serves as a garment through which—with increasing clarity—emerge political, social, and moral issues: questions regarding peace, and the rampant psychological toxicity pervading both personal relationships and fluid modern connections. It feels as though a “Golden Age of Hollywood” has returned—a legacy that belongs to me through my friendships with Alfred Hitchcock and Billy Wilder. Indeed, I am bringing Billy Wilder back into our present times, envisioning him as the potential protagonist of a mega-event spanning San Francisco and Pompeii—the latter being close to Ischia and Sorrento, where Wilder filmed *Avanti!* with Jack Lemmon.
From the Cannes Film Festival, stars are already booking their attendance for the Roman event scheduled for May 22nd; meanwhile, in Egypt, *The Times International*—edited by Ibrahim Shehata—has published a fascinating article on the subject: https://www.thetimesinternational.com/?p=169588. A flurry of activity is currently underway, forging connections between an American film festival—active across California, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and New York State—and the Vesuvius Film Festival in Pompeii, presided over by architect Giovanna D’Amodio. Meanwhile, the film *Anita*—based on a poem by the hero Garibaldi and a winner at both the SF New Concept IFF and the Vesuvius FF—is enjoying special screenings in Brazil at the Gramado IFF, as well as at Andrea Priori’s Cortintelvi IFF (located between Como and Milan); it has also garnered interest in France at the *Festival International du film d’histoire*.
By now, the role of “puppeteer” seems to be taking hold of me—a role I embrace in order to bring to life these cultural and artistic bridges that constitute my lifelong dream. The very latest news concerns the event scheduled for May 22nd in Rome: the occasion will be graced by exceptional patrons—the legendary impresario of Tina Turner, Domenico Modugno, and the longtime head of the Sanremo Festival, Adriano Aragozzini—alongside Francesco Garibaldi Hibbert, a direct descendant of the “Hero of Two Worlds” who is currently making waves in the film world with *Anita* (a film about his famous ancestress, Anita Garibaldi). The event’s distinguished hostess will be the great actress Adriana Russo. Also taking center stage will be prominent ladies such as the Hon. Angela Alioto and *Cavaliere* Silvia Gardin.
We anticipate a veritable flood of VIPs, aristocrats, academics, stars (whose names we will reveal only after the performance), and filmmakers—including, of course, the performance’s director, Enrico Bernard. They will be joined by directors Antonello Altamura (*Ancient Taste of Death: The Sinister Legend of Wardal*)—who has a “top-secret” surprise in store!—as well as Andrea Marfori (*SHEMSU-HOR*), Jason Zavaleta (*Start on Market*), Sherif El-Azma (*Al-Maza*), and Jennifer Glee (*Narcisse Fluid*). All will be there with me, accompanied by the stars of their respective films—my heartfelt thanks to them all! Also in attendance will be director Agostino Marfella, who, like me, shares a theatrical bond with the poet Dario Bellezza.
But hopefully, all of this will be replicated live in NYC, LA, SF, and the Bay Area—and certainly on both Italian (TV programs featuring Maria Luisa Lo Monte) and American television networks.
