By: Julia Vinograd
Poetry is a bridge between wounds.
— Julia Vinograd
Good and evil are only high and low on one string of god’s violin. There are other strings being played stretching from our guts to the end of the world. Telephone wires vibrate with what we meant to say, explanations lost in black curved space like socks lost under the bed. Our silences wail under god’s fingers. Our silences harmonize with the implacable pastel rise of a department store and its peacock tail of blind mannequin eyes while the triumphal march of a snail to the other end of its glossy leaf plays counterpoint. I dreamed of god’s violin. The number of strings went on beyond my eyes counting curve and the length of the strings simply went on. We miss so much. Have you ever been driving alone at night down a freeway fighting sleep and chasing the white line? Supposed you realized no matter how long and fast you drove you’d be stuck in one white mark on the white line and never get past it. Like that. The Music of the Spheres. The Fiddler on the Roof. The Piper on the Hills. The heart-tug behind tv commercials before they start selling glop. We don’t hear god’s violin because we’re part of it the way construction workers don’t hear their own drills. But sometimes, just for one or two notes an echo sweeps us up like a tidal wave scattering everything we clutch and fight for out of our hands like spilled popcorn and we stand in the ruins and laugh. Afterwards we don’t remember. Or we pretend we don’t remember, putting everything wearily back the way it was and going on and that also goes into the music. God’s violin doesn’t help anything, the world’s wounds are part of the music and anyway, it’s too big. Like smashing a symphony hall complete with symphony on top of a spoonful of cough medicine for a sick child. Maybe we’re not supposed to listen. Maybe it’s not possible to really listen and still be any use to our lives. Like trying to touch a toolkit with burnt, aching fingers. But I’ve heard the roar of that fire in the strings and reached for it and couldn’t reach high enough and that was worse. God’s violin is for us, what we are for god only knows.
Of Spirit and Stone is a fresh collection of 28 Julia Vinograd poems. Steeped in metaphor and clever word play, these poems are balms for our brokenness. Lovingly selected from Vinograd's voluminous body of work by Ken Paul Rosenthal, who is making a feature documentary on her life and poetic legacy, this e-book is brimming with 22 archival photos of Julia and intimate close-ups of her typewriter's mechanical interior. Please give to the in-progress documentary about the woman who gave by ordering this unique holiday gift today.