PRISMS 2: Itanile Magazine 2022, Issue 10
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When we invited writers for this Issue, submissions of any theme or genre were welcomed, but especially so for works that explore the concept of journeys through the lenses of travels and tours―what it means to travel, to seek out new places. To write a story or a poem or an essay, writes Garth Greenwell, is to make a claim about what we find beautiful, about what moves us, to reveal a vision of the world, which the writers in this Issue have done with their work.
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Description
Description
When we invited writers for this Issue, submissions of any theme or genre were welcomed, but especially so for works that explore the concept of journeys through the lenses of travels and tours―what it means to travel, to seek out new places. To write a story or a poem or an essay, writes Garth Greenwell, is to make a claim about what we find beautiful, about what moves us, to reveal a vision of the world, which the writers in this Issue have done with their work.
A Rehearsal of Shame is a story of leaving home―of a world that demands it, of fathers who set it in motion, of half-formed and clear-eyed visions of new places―to Libreville, “a city that may have convinced the Third World countries of its ambition, that didn’t need choking throngs and airless constructions to make a fancy economical statement.”
In Home is 2 KM Ahead, the journey is towards home, “picture-esque as ever with its arterial roads” and not away from it. Here home could be open-ended—a fate, an outcome, an end, time the only thoroughfare leading there.
To a Fellow Traveler takes stock of the journey, urging a fellow traveler to “look behind them, we have come a long way, out of the silence of grieving cities, out of the loneliness of deserted villages.” This poem reminds us that remembering is a kind of journey.
While At the Twilight of Your Sojourn is an elegy of inevitable events, of yearning for “places to sing into eternal peace,” for “land somewhere the night is not stinging the song in their throat.” The poem leaves you with a lingering somberness, stemming from the certainty of its language.
In Waiting for Mai Ngoshi, a story of a congregation and its shepherd, the prose is taut, vivid, the overall delivery punchy. Writers write with no way of confirming the value in what they’ve written. They write in the small hope that it does something for the reader, and I hope the works here do something for you, dear reader.
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