Congratulations, Peter. You have twins!

I am beside myself! 

Here it is, the most miraculous medical metaphor in modern times: I have given birth to twins…twin poems that is…several years and several continents apart. While this sensational story has not yet been picked up by the Timeses of either London or New York, I suspect that it will soon emblazon the headlines of The National Enquirer. Here’s the scoop….

In June, 2015 I began writing a poem titled “The High Line” about the elevated park in NYC that had once been a railroad. Draft 1 began with a variation of an old trope, “Hitler, my mother and my father walk into a bar.”

Hitler…What’s that about? When I moved from Wales to New York as an infant we lived in a cockroach infested apartment on the top floor of a six story walk-up a block away from that railroad. I have few memories of my mother who died soon after, but I do remember she was shrouded in a great sadness. I don’t know who to blame for her crippling depression and early death, so what the hell, I blame Hitler who Blitzed her small city during the war.

I’m not sure if Hitler was pleased or pissed to be in my poem, but he began to take it over, as he does. At draft 36 I realized that I couldn’t hold on, so I let him have it. But I smuggled the High Line away so it no longer appears in the poem titled “Next,” which was published in Diode, based in Doha, Qatar.

I continued writing about The High Line until Congratulations to me! draft 83, titled “Bad History,” was recently published in Poetry Wales, which is based in…you guessed it…Wales.

In lieu of flowers and gifts, please give my twins “Next” and “Bad History” a kiss on the cheek or a pat on the head, and if you are so moved, consider sharing them with others.