#honor moore

[davidhudson]

Happy 88th, Joyce Chopra.

With Claudia Weill, who’s shooting Joyce at 34 (1972). Photo by Honor Moore.

[the-final-sentence]

So long hungry woman, farewell crazy dove.

Honor Moore, from "Take This"

[newasmodeus]

"𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘷𝘢 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, "𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘦, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺."  𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟓 - 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬

[whisperthatruns]

At the table, a poet, once a war correspondent, on the pale wood surface, a see-through vase of daffodils. Any invasion to impose democracy, the poet says, must be wrong. Bosnia of course is the exception---as at the public mic, a young man with an accent: I, I am from Kosovo. Surely you believe there are times when---such fast speech, beneath it a pulse, a beat, vibration, breath almost breaking physically, his sentences splitting like wood. In my country---we were waiting---as you, your country---did nothing. So many dead---such terrible things---so how can you say, really, never? Might it not be as correct sometimes just to stop the--- Door holding, door of a small house now kept locked in dread, knocked on, hit against by men you may recognize or not, with gun stocks, crashing, shouting in your language or not, battering their hard shoulders, or jumping to kick against---as inside a mother clutches her child. I have lost track of years, but could it be this clean-shaven young man speaking was once the boy she holds? his determination not to weep then what kept her standing upright, the door of their house from giving way? Will they not ever stop hurtling entire bodies at those wooden doors? Pleads, as if this poet or any poet could deploy rescue, or keep any door from splintering? As if we who listen, we for whom the yellow flowers are so carefully placed, might actually look at any war photograph of the sort we now see every day, were to take the time to scrutinize, recognize even one of all the faces now caught in such rich color---mourners bent across corpses or the near dead, bleeding, exploded villages---or to freeze on a phone screen an instant from any present war so as to bring close one of the bodies on snow, or sand---might not one then come close to feeling what the young man at the mic now feels? such heaving rage, despair, breath shallowing as he tries to verify, tries not to give in to the force which tries the efficacy of that door, works to summon each word as one does when one must speak a second language, inveighing, imploring the poet to abandon logic, reason, principle, so as not to allow that killing already in the past? So many I knew---such terrible---surely a man of compassion such as yourself--- as on the stage, the poet moving his chair forward is moving his mouth, beginning to speak, so that the young man who has not wept will not now weep, so that the door may hold safe the woman with the child in her arms. So that we may at least continue.

Honor Moore, “Q&A”

(N.B. See the Poetry Foundation site for this poem’s proper formatting.)

[the-final-sentence]

Leaves of philodendron pour from the table.

Honor Moore, from “Violetta, 2000″

[thesingingknives]

What is “falling in love” language for? I strike off anything to do with love. I first felt it as a force that suggested it would dissolve if coupled with its object. I believed love had meaning and that what I called “passion” was the entrance to it.

—Honor Moore, from A Termination (A Public Space Books, 2024)

[thesingingknives]

I climb the stairs of the outdoor lot and get into my Corvair. I had not told my parents I was pregnant. Such a fuckup, almost willfully skipping days of birth control pills.

—Honor Moore, from A Termination (A Public Space Books, 2024)

[bigtickhk]

A Memoirist, Playwright and Mother of 9

In “Our Revolution,” Honor Moore sets out to understand her gifted, complicated mother and their relationship over time.

Our Revolution: A Mother and Daughter at Midcentury by Honor Moore https://amzn.to/3d20bpd