Since the very start of the Trump Presidency, American poets have rapidly mobilized in news-making numbers and noises to participate in protests across geographical and generational divides.
In the temple’s farthest corner
an olive tree stands,
silver-green leaves like a shawl,
its trunk braided
down into the ancient earth:
You are witnessed by it.
We seized the night and shook it till it broke, / so time and bottles and most of our shoes / spilled from its breaking—and music gushed too: / Paris and Nikos relentless till five. // Blame them for this minefield of broken glass, / our unreasonable outbursts of joy. / Someone danced until his knees were bleeding. / Someone said she had fractured her being.
What’s happening, did you hear? / I want to get home to catch the news tonight / but can’t say no to someone who needs a ride / —there’s no metro again? / There’s always something. / We’re losing our minds in all this. / But you know I’m a Socialist, I’ve never / voted for anything right-wing, ever, but / what’s happened to him—he’s a good guy / you know. I’ve had him in this cab / when he was the minister of education, / he’s a good guy, I mean I like him / but something’s wrong, how did he get us / into this crazy situation?
Why our continuing attraction to Greece? There is something in that small country out there on the edge of Europe that doesn’t feel like the rest of the continent. Part of the attraction is certainly to the very different modern history, and to a landscape shaped by human use yet still oddly wild.