NVN Monday: Of Fire, Ashes, and Poems

“Fire” by Gil Hoy, “To the Ashes in L.A.” by Alexis Krasilovsky, “Enough With the Vistas Already” by Mark Hendrickson, “The Unnamed Fire” by Alejandro Escudé

FIRE

by Gil Hoy

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

*

The hawk
Soars high
in the sky. Humans
Soar higher,
Faster, 
Farther. 

The fish
Swims majestically 
Through the currents 
of the sea. Humans
Swim faster,
Deeper,
Farther. 

Bats,
Whales, 
Dolphins,
Rabbits,
Don’t destroy
the planet.
 
It’s getting hotter outside.
The fires rage and
There’s not enough water.

*

Gil Hoy is a Best of the Net nominated Tucson, Arizona poet and writer who studied fiction and poetry at The Writers Studio in Tucson, Arizona and at Boston University. Hoy is a semi-retired trial lawyer and a former four-term elected Brookline, MA Selectman. His poetry and fiction have previously appeared in Third Wednesday, Flash Fiction Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Chiron Review, The Galway Review, Right Hand Pointing, Rusty Truck, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, The Penmen Review, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Bewildering Stories, Literally Stories, The New Verse News and elsewhere.

*

TO THE ASHES IN L.A.

by Alexis Krasilovsky

AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News.

*

A poem is a monument
when there aren’t enough stones
to place on the burial grounds
to hold ghosts
in place.
 
A poem is a monument
when you’re exiled from the land
and poems are portable.
 
A poem is a monument
when tears
evaporate before
words can be written down.
 
When you’re fleeing flames
that multiply like stars
in a darkening firmament,
only a poem
can speak to it.
 
When lies propagate
into your flickering
consciousness,
sweeping under rugs
the killing fields.
 
When your bare feet
step onto
radioactive sand.
 
When rose petals fly
in fiery winds,
replaced by embers
and ashes.
 
A poem is a monument
when pots filled with ashes
are left in the rain,
overflowing.
 
When seeds of memories
sprout anew,
and trees grow
high enough to bring shade.
 
          A poem is a monument
          when you take time to imagine
          the gravestones
          of your ancestors.

*

Alexis Krasilovsky most recent book Watermelon Linguistics: New and Selected Poems (Cyberwit) was a finalist in the 2022 International Book Awards. She is also the author of Great Adaptations: Screenwriting and Global Storytelling and has traveled to twenty countries making and screening her global documentary features Women Behind the Camera and Let Them Eat Cake—available for free streaming on Kanopy.com.

*

ENOUGH WITH THE VISTAS ALREADY

by Mark Hendrickson

Luke Dexter kneels as he sifts through the remains of his father’s fire-ravaged beach front property in the aftermath of the Palisades Fire on Friday, Jan. 10, 2025, in Malibu, Calif. (AP Photo/John Locher via Newslooks)

*

Yeah, I get it, you poets of yore—
you've got your virgin forests, hummocks and swards,
mountains and oceans and mist and foam.
 
I, too, see an island out my front window:
a chicane raised and strewn with rock and gravel,
serving as the median between northbound
and southbound cars from the library down the block.
 
I, too, see forest hues of deepest green
and rich earthy tones of black and brown:
they are reflected in the colors of the recycling bins
in driveways down the alley, waiting
like lonesome lovers for their men to come
and lift them, open them, fulfill them—
then leave them wanting again, for another two weeks.
 
From your high vantage point you speak with awe
of looking out and down upon the spectacle of Nature,
to behold God looking back, revealed in all His glory,
sunbathing nude in every valley, kissing every stream;
while I stand looking out my window,
attempting to avoid direct eye contact
with my neighbors in their curtainless condos
straight across the street.
 
Normally, I would tolerate your arboretums of language,
your botanical metaphors, your pastoral poetry;
but today great men are being buried,
books are being banned,
there is talk of annexing nations,
love is being parsed and threatened
and is likely to be outlawed, again.
 
I just can't wax eloquent today.
I need real and raw.
Your landscapes are burning,
and I'm choking on the ashes of the flowers.

*

Mark Hendrickson (he/him/his) is a gay poet and writer in the Des Moines area. His work has appeared in Variant Lit, Five Minutes, Leaf, Spellbinder, and others. Mark worked for many years as a Mental Health Technician in a locked psychiatric unit. He has advanced degrees in marriage & family therapy, health information management, and music. Connect with him @MarkHPoetry.

*

THE UNNAMED FIRE

by Alejandro Escudé

Dozens of beachfront homes in Malibu were destroyed overnight in the Palisades Fire on Wednesday, Jan. 8, 2025 (Photo by David Crane, Los Angeles Daily News/SCNG)

*

The hills were there, lichen green, and I felt the small 
ferocious animals scurrying inside of it. The coyote ever-present, 
ready to pounce on the owners’ three Shih Tzu. Sometimes, we’d 
housesit, and I’d lounge on the front yard overlooking the Pacific Ocean. 
It was as if I could dip a toe in the sea from that cliff, the ruffled white curve
as it wound north toward Malibu, an emerald land too close to call distant.
Now that street has turned ash gray, only the outlines of the lots remain,
that same coast like the edge of a puddle of spilled black ink. I recognize
the people who were caught in their cars, cars that were later plowed
to make way for fire engines and ambulances. The wind spoke in vowels
the night before last across my humble balcony that faces those smoky hills.
The sudden clanks. Buffering curtains. The canyons siphoning destruction.
One could imagine the homes as graves. Ash-people holding on to one another.
In ancient times no machine could whisk them away to safety. A volcano
of wind, torrent of melted metal. What powers do the digital towers have?
What future awaits those of us who traverse this playground of film and filth
and indifference, negotiating the enchanted brutality of this hardened city? 
One can read the scroll of the flames; they speak a crackling language,
letters made of embers. It rages on, the unnamed fire, it wraps itself 
in the gales. A migration begins along an avenue of burning palm fronds.

*

Alejandro Escudé published his first full-length collection of poems My Earthbound Eye in September 2013. He holds a master’s degree in creative writing from UC Davis and teaches high school English. Originally from Argentina, Alejandro lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.