Dear Poets, How strange it is not to hear you! To not be crammed in a room chock full of kindred spirits, hanging onto your every word. Granted, I still read your words daily, absorbing beauty, meaning, and fury, but the sound of your voice slowly fades from my memory. It hasn’t been that long, really, even though the past five weeks have felt like one continuous blurry day that has lasted a couple centuries. What we’d all give to go back in time! Perhaps, to have savored each blossoming rhyme, consciously tasting each sweet, ripening word instead of gorging ourselves without a thought. Oh, how I wish it were still February! Back then our scene was thriving and alive, ringing out onto the airwaves in the morning, and to thunderous applause in the evening. We never dreamed of this new reality. Back then our biggest problem was a smorgasbord of possibility, and being just a little bit sleep deprived, as we wandered from venue to venue chasing this ghost of a dream. Our chorus of poets is now sonically replaced by this endless avalanche of newscasts as if watching every single broadcast will ease even a minute of this ongoing uncertainty. I hope in this new solitude your muse offers up an avalanche of poetry as you witness earth shattering history, because what I want more than anything is to hear you tell it to me in person after the hug embargo has ended when we’ve reached the other side of this frost bitten mountain we are all now forced to climb, sitting together in the warm embrace of our fiery community of rhyme.
D.L. Lang served as Poet Laureate of Vallejo, California (2017-2019). She is the author of thirteen books, and one spoken word album. Her poems have been published in numerous anthologies worldwide.