slow poem

slow poem

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slow things heard in old songs
sad songs sung by the sides of old inns
dry roses clutched by a lover
a wedding dress downriver
you will ask them their names
the women who remember
will ask you in turn where you come from
inside this small country
you are writing a book
it’s unfinished
the evening enfolding you slowly
a soreness in the fingers
who are you they ask
you will get in the car
with the mirror with the silver
flaking in the back
the book will receive much criticism
you knew it from the story
the bride gone downriver
where dusk pulls the sunset
quarter after quarter
so many have written
they will ask you with roses
will ask what to call you
by the river where you come.

We cannot back down

We now confront a second Trump presidency.

There’s not a moment to lose. We must harness our fears, our grief, and yes, our anger, to resist the dangerous policies Donald Trump will unleash on our country. We rededicate ourselves to our role as journalists and writers of principle and conscience.

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Armed with a remarkable 160 years of bold, independent journalism, our mandate today remains the same as when abolitionists first founded The Nation—to uphold the principles of democracy and freedom, serve as a beacon through the darkest days of resistance, and to envision and struggle for a brighter future.

The day is dark, the forces arrayed are tenacious, but as the late Nation editorial board member Toni Morrison wrote “No! This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”

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Onwards,

Katrina vanden Heuvel
Editorial Director and Publisher, The Nation

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