In Memory of Naphtali, Gilad, and Eyal by Omer Zamir

I’ve been meaning to post something of this young mans work since he contacted the press back in March. He has a few videos of him reading and hopefully the audio comes through with the embed. I’m also posting a review from Gadfly Online below. Omer’s MS Apotheosis of a Generation is under consideration and this poem is in the collection.

 

Omer Zamir’s collection of poems is deeply reflective and conscientious of the surrounding world. While each poem possesses an individual voice, together they all form a well-bodied collection, critical of the speaker’s generation. In an interesting move, the speaker of these poems critiques society while maintaining his place in it, achieved by the consistent use of “we.” This is a powerful strategy, establishing familiarity with the reader, rallying him to join the speaker’s fight. Everyone – speaker, reader, everyday denizen – has something at stake. Zamir crafts these poems extremely well, with particular attention to form and style. “No Hero to Emulate” benefits from an unexpected cheerleading trope, utilizing a peppy, positive team-mentality to depict a desolate world. The fiery diction of “Un-fathered” mimics the barren society the speaker perceives, isolated from the past and with no real hope of a future. Perhaps the star of the collection is “Adrenaline,” which is written as a villanelle. Zamir turns this typically pastoral, nostalgic form on its head, allowing the repetition to build tension and emphasize the speaker’s acrimony towards his complacent, lethargic generation. With a clear understanding of craft, Omer Zamir’s poetry is immensely engaging and sure to spark interest.

Allison Bohan

Associate Editor, Gadfly Online

 

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Futility

Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds,—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?

—Wilfred Owen

Still poetry month, the bird is my bell

Three new titles for poetry available now on the Website at deerbrookeditions.com all are accomplished poets. They Join the rank of Deerbrook poets, all of whom garner recognition in some way. In the spirit of poetry month (aren’t we lucky, the powers that be give us a full month to wave the poetry flag).

Wars Don't happen Anymore by Sarah White

Sarah White’s poems resonate the irony of glory and human love.

Beautiful Day by JR Solonche

Beautiful Day by JR Solonche has delight and sorrow, insights and more.

Poetry is like getting dropped off in New Orleans.

A passing by Joan I. Siegel

Meditations on what cannot be seen, the music of memory.

The birds can sing and I get them.

But except in dreams

we are never really free. As the song goes. Don’t dreams have a way of working for us creatively and by sorting out big questions of the self? Interpretations are best left to the dreamer and not those who want to make symbols and apply them as meanings to be used again as from a dream dictionary. That is not to say that images will not turn up from ideas, memories, ancient art, alchemy, initiations, stories, and myths. They can make questions bigger or show us something we pondered about in more simple terms, whether or not they actually answer any questions at all, it may be enough to be engaged in thinking about our lives from a dream perspective.

Here is a favorite poem from Where it Goes by Martina Reisz Newberry.

A Cete of Badgers, a Sleuth of Bears

Flint

FLINT       for Penelope

 

The tears. Where would we be
without the brine of tears?
Tasted blurred vision,
pain relinquished, escaping slowly,
heart waste, basted,
tears wrung out, dry tears,
tear upon tear,
tears that will not fall
even in our sleep
from what well of hearts
run down cold window panes,
late November fog,
brain fog, lifted,
sweat on the cold
metal of the mind,
cobweb of relished dreams
glimmering in morning sun,
redemptive tears.