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Omon Ra

The accident happened a long time ago, when the American politician Kissinger visited our country. He was conducting important negotiations, and a lot depended on whether we could sign a provisional nuclear arms limitation treaty (this was especially important, because our enemies must not be allowed to know that we never had any nuclear arms). So Kissinger was entertained at the very highest state level, and all the various state services were involved—for instance, when it was discovered that he liked short, plump brunettes, a quartet of plump brunette swans was found to drift across Swan Lake on the stage of the Bolshoi Theatre, under the glinting gaze of Kissinger’s horn-rimmed spectacles up in the government box. It was thought easier to negotiate while hunting, and Kissinger was asked what he liked to hunt. Probably in an attempt at subtle political witticism, he said he preferred bears, and was surprised and rather alarmed when next morning he was actually taken hunting. On the ...

Silence is Praise (Maimonides)

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Victor Pelevin's Omon Ra

You have to see things very clearly, very precisely, in order not to make too many mistakes. Nothing in history is like it is in the textbooks. Dialectics led to Marx’s teaching, which was intended for an advanced country but won its victory in the most backward one. We Communists had no time to prove the correctness of our ideas—the war cost us too much of our strength, we had to spend too long struggling against the remnants of the past and our enemies within the country. We just didn’t have the time to defeat the West technologically. But in the battle of ideas, you can’t stop for a second. The paradox—another piece of dialectics—is that we support the truth with falsehood, because Marxism carries within itself an all-conquering truth, and the goal for which you will give your life is, in a formal sense, a deception. But the more consciously …” I felt my heart sink, and I tried spontaneously to pull my wrist free, but Colonel Urchagin’s fingers seemed to have turned into a narrow ho...

Yusef Komunyakaa's "Facing It"

Facing It My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn’t, dammit: No tears.  I’m stone. I’m flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way—the stone lets me go. I turn that way—I’m inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap’s white flash. Names shimmer on a woman’s blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird’s  wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet’s image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I’m a window. He’s lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman’s trying to erase names: No, she’s brushing a boy’s hair.

R L Swihart's New Poem: "Gymnopedie"

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  I have a new poem in the Nov 2026 issue of Quadrant Magazine, accessible online or in print. Also, I have been given permission to share my poem here (see above or use the link below): "Gymnopedie." RL Swihart: ‘Gymnopedie’ - Quadrant https://share.google/s3n0BgDtT0xzrsx4T Enjoy! and check out the rest of the magazine. #rlswihart13  #gymnopedie  #quadrantmagazine  #poetry #readmorepoetry2026💕

The Yellow Arrow

“You’re not Andrei, are you?” the woman suddenly asked. “Yes. Why?” “There was a letter lying around here addressed to Andrei, but it didn’t say which Andrei. Maybe it’s for you.” “It is,” said Andrei. “Can you give me it?” “It was somewhere around here,” the woman mumbled, rummaging through the heap of clothes on the table. “It’ll take months to sort all this out. Life’s awful nowadays. Always a crush in the corridor—it’s too much to cope with. Found it. There it is. Are you sure it’s for you? Have you got your ticket with you?” “Haven’t got one,” Andrei joked familiarly. The woman giggled, and held out the envelope. “Save your dirty jokes for the young girls,” she said skittishly.

The Yellow Arrow

Have you seen any of our friends around recently?” “I see Grisha pretty often,” said Andrei. “He’s got lots of money now. And I saw Sergei just recently. He’s changed a lot. Doesn’t drink or smoke. He’s become a bedeist.” “What’s that?” “It’s a religion, a very beautiful one. They believe we’re being pulled along by a ‘B.D. 3’ locomotive—sometimes they just call it a ‘Number 3,’ and we’re traveling toward a Bright Dawn. Those who believe in the ‘B.D. 3’ will pass over the final bridge, but the others won’t.”