Gary Corseri: It’s a book of dreams, and a book about how dreams come together on gossamer highways, and—stone by stone—on hardscrabble byways. Drunk on cervezas, ganga and poetry, Beaudin delivers travel journals that one wants to have lived—and re-live—with the author.
Gary Corseri: We were sorry to hear the bombs that were meant to fall on a home adjacent to yours (and one more, down a block or two) have lamentably ruined your daughter’s wedding, blowing her up in her new white dress, along with the groom, and his mother and yours, and several children and dogs and cats.
Gary Corseri: Under the flush of cherry, in air as mild as breath, by the Ota’s tributary–five crooked fingers reaching into the Inland Sea–I stalk the A-bomb dome.
Gary Corseri: I have sometimes thought that if wars could be shown in slow-motion, we could put an end to this barbarism that gives the lie to all claims of “civilization” and “humanity.”
Where do we fit in in ‘the march of Time’? Where… between this moment–and timelessness? This little poem, finely crafted, asks big questions and leaves us wondering–and in wonder.