Author Archives: jillbpearlman

The New Vertigo

Posted on January 26, 2020 by jillbpearlman

I like to write, but boy, do I have trouble at times settling down.  I love to write, even, but the other pole – the love of motion – makes it rough to sit at that desk.  I’ve got to … Continue reading →

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A Poem for 19 Days into the New Year

Posted on January 19, 2020 by jillbpearlman

19 Days into the New Year Time grows, after New Years, like a cauliflower– half handsome, half deformed, bloomingat its own isotropic rate.  On the 3rd we skatetowards war; a plane of travelers crashesin Iran; Down Under, animals, mostly sheep, … Continue reading →

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Dionysian 2020

Posted on January 1, 2020 by jillbpearlman

There is a phrase I toyed with in French many years ago: “le ciel, c’est assis sur mes sourcils.” The sky is sitting on my brows. That famous gray Paris sky was hovering close to my head during winters when … Continue reading →

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Immersed in Oswald’s Nobody

Posted on December 4, 2019 by jillbpearlman

I love the verbal incantation, the spell of words cast by poetry.   Our current social crisis, with its urgency and ER alarms, seems to overwhelm the lure of musical sound.   It’s no wonder that I love the power … Continue reading →

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Moscow Mania

Posted on October 30, 2019 by jillbpearlman

Moscow of eclectisms. Moscow of vast spaces. Moscow of KGB, and crossroads of empires, Moscow of mayonnaise salads. All those old things are still there, now layered with the new — Moscow of 100 open kitchens with tattooed chefs, young … Continue reading →

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Petersburg’s Fresh Waters

Posted on October 25, 2019 by jillbpearlman

Standing by the river Neva, wanting to compose poetry in St Petersburg, I couldn’t hear beyond the lines of great poets – Akhmatova, Blok, Tsvetaeva, Mandelstam. History dominates voice, especially in Russia. The Revolution, Stalin’s terrors, the siege, all produced … Continue reading →

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George and Francesca: The Magic Box

Posted on September 27, 2019 by jillbpearlman

In writing about his friend photographer Francesca Woodman, George Lange talks about a “magic box” that he kept after she died in 1981, a box of relics – not only photographs but clips of hair, napkins, contact sheets, scrawled notes, … Continue reading →

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Continuum

Posted on September 8, 2019 by jillbpearlman

“Some beetle trilling its midnight utterance.”   Beetle song opens Denise Levertov’s “Continuum,” a poem of late-summer return.  Returns can be precarious transitions…maybe you’re like me, having come back home with a certain euphoria, having recalibrated by quieting the melancholy news … Continue reading →

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Cut Me Loose

Posted on August 18, 2019 by jillbpearlman

How freeing to discover the curious way French acquaintances and friends are judging the US.  Fortunately Trump is not sucking out all the oxygen.  While they despise him, they’re perplexed by this passing nightmare and don’t hold it against us.  … Continue reading →

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Summer Bed

Posted on August 16, 2019 by jillbpearlman

The pine prepares a beddropping its needles long and thinas angel’s hair and smooth, each connectedto a partner, toasted like hay or ochreanticipating our autumnal bed though now we lay head to headwatching the summer stars

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