Elizabeth Thuy Gordon

"We are here! We are here! We are here!" —Dr. Seuss, Horton Hears a Who I didn't plan on writing a Letter to the Editor this morning.  No, I'd awakened from a restful sleep (as evidenced by the damp spot of drool on my pillow), having been serenaded by the patter of raindrops all night. I opened my laptop to check the weather (clearing) and the scores from the midnight tennis match I was too sleepy to watch to conclusion (Sasha Zverev, in three). Then I scrolled down for more news, thumbing past sex offender photos and a bagel shop grand opening to click on “ 5 plays John Staton would love to see done in Wilmington .”  Having recently attended some very good plays here, and anticipating seeing more, I was intrigued to know which works our local theater critic would be advocating. I read his choices (interesting, but no real surprises) and was about to close the tab when my personal spidey sense kicked in and made me look again. And there it was. Or,...

A while back my brother-in-law asked if I wanted to collaborate with him in putting on a poetry event here in Wilmington. Yes, I said, before he proposed hope as a theme.  Hope, of course, forms the basis of all my writing. Just kidding. Early on, as a poet in college, I wrote a poem mocking Wendell Berry's "The Peace of Wild Things." It was a scathing lampoon, and accomplished too. One day I'll dig it up and post it here. Earlier, in high school, I wrote of tortured love, depression, the impossibility of closeness or connection. Earlier still, in grade school, I penned story after story of human cruelty toward other animals. You could say hope was my essence, my obsession, my brand. If you were an idiot. So as the day of the event draws near, I've been turning my attention hopeward. I remember being in a meeting of Unitarians where the leader eloquently made clear that hope, not optimism, was the thing. I wish I could recall her exact words, but her con...

The bluffs you say the bluffs and I try to imagine them holding his ashes a smidgen of him nestled in a crevice which remains dark and cool despite the Shawnee sun beheld by damselflies the river singing him lullabies all day and all night in all seasons never mourning never guilt aggrieved   just her green   sacramental waters soiled with tears flooded with prayer.