Living here on Earth, we breathe the rhythms of a universe that extends infinitely above us. When resonant harmonies arise between this vast outer cosmos and the inner human cosmos, poetry is born.
Divorced from the cosmos, from nature, from society and from each other, we have become fractured and fragmented.
Each new generation builds on the work of the previous one, gaining new perspective. New verbs are introduced. We Google strange and dangerous places. We tweet mindlessly to the cosmos. We Facebook our own grandmothers. I, for one, don't want to be left behind.
'Cosmopolitan' used to publish five covers across the U.S. so that if one was unpopular, it wouldn't tank their entire sales.
We don't really understand most of what's happening in the cosmos. Is there any afterlife? Who knows.
This is so American, man: either make something your God and cosmos and then worship it, or else kill it.
It's my sick fantasy to be a Cosmo cover.
Every once in a while, it seems like the cosmos part, and something great plops into your lap.
I had started writing as a poet in a closed, post-Revival, claustrophobic world, where the shadows of the national upheaval and the intense effort - the intense self-conscious effort - to make a literary movement were still evident. Now we lived a life as writers that was more cosmopolitan, more open, that had more travel and exchange.
The lack of trust in supranational entities and cosmopolitan elite creates a fertile ground for tribalist belongings and reactionary politics.
