I am excited to announce the first of many guest posts by Dr. Kristina Zolatova. Zolatova describes herself as an “impure” boundary-transgressing philosopher, who takes no offence whatsoever at being called a poet. In fact, she welcomes the denomination, receiving it as a high compliment. Although a philosopher by training, Zolatova’s work is interdisciplinary and does not fit into ready-made, stifling categories, which, of course, puts her at odds with most academic institutions in the U.S. these days. Given my own love of transgressive-boundary, interdisciplinary work, I am happy to have Kristina join me. So here’s to a creative outlet for a fellow feminist, Catholic, critical-race, Augustine-loving, “impure” philosopher.
When I asked Zolatova about the poem below, she said that she wrote it during a time when she felt “out of sync” with nearly every institutional and communal setting in which she found herself.
A strange place with strange customs.
Ornate head coverings, odd masks masking a
Is there a “second” subject?
Does it signify?
Content (pale) men clap their hands, embracing the silence and silencing the embrace.
Let the nightingale sing.
At least, at least let her scream.
This strangeness, however, exceeds the holy places.
The towers, ivory and otherwise, are filled with dogmatists, alchemists, and many other ists.
Left, right, left.
Silencers all of them.
Hollow soundings, shady submissions.
(Oна не здесь).
N.b. The word “subject” in line 2 and in the second to the last line should have a double strike-through; unfortunately, I have not figured out how to create this effect. Hacker advice is most welcome.)