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Unavoidable Element of Time
What’s It Like To Be Old? is a candid poetry collection that addresses what happens when the self still feels vividly alive, but the body has other ideas. Were there any poets or other writers who influenced your work on this collection?
I guess life was the main source of ideas and insights for this book. I have always admired Thomas Hardy’s excellent poetry, much of it written in the context of his old age. And of course Dylan Thomas and W. B. Yeats made famous statements about old age. But those tended to the heroic, and I wanted to explore the day-to-day consciousness of being old, a rather different thing than a defiant whoop. I did not find many writers who looked steadily at the life of the old, happy, painful, resigned, or entered into a psychological state that I defined as ripeness from Shakespeare’s touching lines.
How do you know when a poem is truly finished?
My poems often come out from a deeper place in my mind where they seem to be always already finished. I might struggle to find words for the middle, but the beginning and end seemed already written, and when the final lines came out, though I might mess with them a bit, I knew the poem was written: a rather mysterious process, I grant.
What was the biggest challenge you faced in putting together this poetry collection?
I had a great number of poems on the subject of what it is like to be old. I had recently entered into the life of older people, my 70s, when I would hit upon a statement, or a dramatic voice of someone, or a point of view, and so on, and I would create a poem. I edited all the poems very carefully, but then came the hard part: picking the ones worth putting in a book of poems on the subject. If they had made it through my editing process, they had some value, and it was hard to know which to select. I settled on distributing them into a kind of plot of poem sections that would eventually constitute the major sections of the book. It was then easier to see in a comparison of those in each section which would provide a new perspective and a superior poetic statement. Still, I was sorry to see certain ones have to go.
Can we look forward to more work from you soon? What are you currently working on?
I have finished four more books that are already slated for publication: these are a book on life in the unavoidable element of time, entitled Being in Time and Change, a work that follows many of the themes of time in What’s It Like To Be Old? Another is called Political Poems and asks the reader to think about our national and social hopes and despairs– so potent just now; it focuses on dominations and their harm. Next is a book of vivid impressions of life as we experience it daily; it is called Seasons: Moments and explores directly our brilliant or terrible life on the planet. Then there is another book of poems focused on my wonderful dog, Maisie, and her remarkable experiences in a life outside in Central Park.
I am now pulling together and editing a collection of reflections on dying and death, and our response to these realities. As with my other poems, they offer a panoply of points of view, personal, social, or eternal. I am liking these poems as I go through them, even though the subject itself is so unlikeable.
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Poetry Thrives on a Mystery
What We Hold No Longer is a collection of poems that circle around memory, aging, identity, and the haunting void that lies beneath it all. What inspired you to write this particular collection of poems?
I’ve recently become an avid reader of psychoanalyst Adam Phillips. Last year, one of his books introduced me to Jacques Lacan. Specifically, how our subconscious impacts language, and in turn, how we use language shapes desire. For a poet, what could be more delicious to explore? Ineluctably, even mentioning Lacan brings up his theories on the Void (The Thing) and religion. This, in turn, led me to Lacanian scholar Richard Boothby (Embracing the Void). Along the way, I also read a book by Phillips on our ambivalence towards transforming our lives (On Wanting to Change). Transformation is a particularly important topic at this stage of my life. What I did not anticipate in reading this book was the evocation of so many memories. As a pediatric psychoanalyst, Phillip’s description of childhood, particularly the excruciating years of adolescence, flooded me with things I’d long forgotten (eg, seeing my grandfather’s corpse at age 9, the inchoate sense of frustration, and seeking revenge on my parents’ reputation with a can of red spray paint, etc.).
Can you share a bit about your writing process? Do you have any rituals or routines when writing poetry?
I’m trying to understand my writing behavior. I appear to have a natural rhythm, whereby I’ll write a dozen poems over a month or two and then go silent for just as long. During the quiet months, I read more and pay attention to what I see and listen to: all the things popping up as thoughts and feelings. The poems “The False God’s Lullaby” and “New Year’s Day” were brief glimpses of people, just a few moments of an image that resonated deeply, and unexpectedly.
What moves me from outside triggers something poignant nesting deep inside: “The I of my other who moves silently with me” (The False God’s Lullaby). Also, I love editing. Paul Valéry once said: “A poem is never finished, only abandoned.” I think he meant you can always refine and improve a poem. I try to limit my revision window to six months. Once a poem reaches structural stability (ie, I know what I want to say and the confines to say it in), I put it away for several days or weeks at a time. It’s important to understand that during initial composition, the poem’s neural map is being built using high stores of neurotransmitters. This is how we learn. However, it also prevents us from seeing inherent weaknesses when we’re still trying to get our thoughts written down. Taking a break for days or weeks reduces neurotransmitter stores. This removes the blinders to our writing, so we can see problems more readily and find better ways to say what we’re trying to convey.
How do you approach writing about deeply personal or emotional topics?
I think it is important during initial composition to just let things rip, because that is likely to be the most truthful. However, there is a balance to be struck. I’m reminded of a phrase from the Upanishads: “The path to salvation is narrow. It is as difficult to tread as the razor’s edge.” I view confessional poetry as an attempt to achieve psychic salvation. To shy away from powerful emotions creates a sense of falsity impossible to ignore. Yet, in the passion of writing, we can also say too much. Poetry thrives on a mystery, on what is left unsaid. That’s part of the art form I’m still working on improving.
How has this poetry book changed you as a writer, or what did you learn about yourself through writing it?
I have the sense in writing What We Hold No Longer that I’m beginning to mature as a poet. I’m not sure anyone else would agree. But there was something about the Lacanian cycle of poems that shifted my writing in a way I haven’t fully grasped. At this moment, I can’t imagine writing anything more profound or better composed than those poems. Time will tell. Every book I’ve written so far has enriched my sense of self and given me a sense of being more at peace with myself. Something that had eluded me before I’d written The False God’s Lullaby.
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Such topics have been the foundation of his poetry explored in his previous works and have been expanded upon in “What We Hold No Longer.” As in his other works, poems are grouped together in themes. These themes approached from a deeply psychic perspective and include: personal transformations throughout life, existential encounters with “Nothingness,” the rise of fascism, loss, and the realm of an interior life (both our conscious narratives and our river of unconsciousness). What Gedaliah refers to as “the I of my other, who moves silently with me” (The False God’s Lullaby).
The poems in this current collection maintain characteristics that reviewers of his previous works have consistently noted. That “Gedaliah seamlessly blends philosophical depth with artistic expression, offering a deeply reflective journey through identity and human complexity, striking a perfect balance intellectual exploration and emotional resonance.”
What Might Be Possible
Dark Place centers around three students who stumble on an unsettling truth that society is being manipulated, and those labelled as “dispossessed” are being erased from existence. Where did the idea for this novelette come from?
I wanted to develop a near-future story in which a worldwide authority invokes extreme emergency powers to control a burgeoning population, resulting in the loss of freedom and rights.
The idea of a hidden penal colony came to mind, and a social scoring system would be the mechanism to segregate and banish the dispossessed.
My writing of the story started as a typical dystopian trope, but as it grew, I didn’t want it to be stark black and white: ‘good’ idealistic rebels versus ‘evil’ authority. So it becomes more nuanced when the three protagonists are stranded in the Dark Place and learn that it has a greater purpose with profound consequences. The protagonists must navigate not only external dangers but also their own internal struggles, confronting differences between themselves and moral dilemmas.
Dark Place has been described as subverting dystopian tropes and I hope readers find that rewarding.
What are some things that you find interesting about the human condition that you think make for great fiction?
There is a degree of anxiety in the world today about the future. Perhaps every generation in the past has had similar misgivings.
My intention is to write about what might be possible a few steps down the road. I don’t want to write far-future settings with fantastical technologies far removed from what we have now. Grounding the story in a familiar world, echoing some of today’s challenges, has more resonance.
The science inserted in the fiction, I felt, was well-balanced. How did you manage to keep it grounded while still providing the fantastic edge science fiction stories usually provide?
A lifelong interest in the societal implications of technology began in the 1980s when I taught the new technologies of microelectronics and microcomputers in colleges and universities. This early professional life directly influenced my creative pursuits, leading to my first story Larrs’ Ghost (published in a computing magazine) which explored a “computer-generated world” long before virtual reality was a common term. More recently Close To You is a cautionary tale about the imminent dominance of big corporations developing ever more powerful artificial intelligence and virtual reality.
Dark Place is set in a time just down the road from now, so the technology is a plausible extension of today: drones are becoming more advanced; flexible microelectronic circuits (I call them membranes) already exist in rudimentary form; AI is advancing at speed.
Can we look forward to more work from you soon? What are you currently working on?
I feel there’s a lot more to develop with the premise of Dark Place. Although the ending finished with a profound reveal, I deliberately left some aspects of the story open-ended that mirrors the uncertain future facing the characters and the broader society. The lack of a neat, conclusive resolution hopefully encourages readers to reflect on the story’s themes beyond the final page.
So now I’m working on parts two and three. Part two is how the people in the camps progress in the knowledge that the outside world is in total collapse and how they rise to the challenges they face. Part three is how they defend themselves from an external existential threat. How much will they fall back on technology to protect their new world? The three protagonists will have increasingly conflicting ideas on how they see their future world.
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In a near-future world ravaged by resource depletion, society is controlled by the Authority, which enforces a strict social credit system. Failure to maintain a high enough score means banishment to the mysterious “Dark Place.”
When three inquisitive students, Ros, Femke, and Domhnal, discover that parts of a hidden Earth have been concealed from the privileged population of the “Light Place,” they are determined to expose the Authority’s brutal culling system. To do so, they must intentionally lower their scores and enter the Dark Place, only to discover it holds secrets far more profound than they ever imagined.
Dark Place is a gripping novelette that transcends typical dystopian narratives. Praised for its compelling dialogue and nuanced characters, a testament to author Christopher Kell’s experience as an award-winning playwright, the story is a masterful exploration of moral ambiguity, technology’s ethical implications, and the enduring resilience of the human spirit. It is a thought-provoking journey that invites readers to reflect on the nature of freedom, the quest for truth, and what it truly means to survive. This powerful and multi-layered examination of contemporary issues through a dystopian lens is a key element of the novelette’s intellectual value and demonstrates the author’s ability to imbue a short work with significant philosophical weight.
Dark Place: A dystopian novelette
Dark Place tells the story of a near-future world where survival is tied to a Citizen Score. Anyone who slips below the threshold is “dispossessed” and sent to a bleak exile known as the Dark Place. We follow Ros, Domhnal, and Femke, three students who stumble onto a terrible truth: society is being manipulated, and the dispossessed are hidden away in camps designed to erase their existence. They enter this world themselves, struggling with survival, trust, and the weight of their discovery. It is a tale of control, rebellion, and the raw question of whether knowledge can really bring change.
The writing is tense and gripping from the very first chapter. The author doesn’t waste time painting a rosy picture. Instead, we are pulled straight into the fear of surveillance, the quiet scratching of chalk on a board, and the dread of the Authority’s power. The pacing is sharp and restless. Sometimes I wished for more quiet moments to breathe, yet the urgency also matched the desperation of the world. I liked how the story didn’t just rely on technology to shock me. It leaned on doubt, on whispered conversations, on the guilt and courage of young people who want more than lies.
The whole system of citizen scores felt uncomfortably believable. It stirred up anger, but also sadness, because the dispossessed aren’t faceless. They are old people, sick people, stubborn thinkers. The book made me wonder how easily we might trade fairness for comfort if pushed. I admired the way the characters held on to friendship as their anchor, even while arguing and stumbling. Their flaws made them feel real, and that rawness carried the story more than any twist did.
I’d recommend Dark Place to anyone who enjoys dystopian fiction that pushes beyond gadgets and sci-fi trappings into questions of survival and morality. It isn’t just about rebels and villains. It’s about choices, fear, and the stubborn hope that truth matters. If you like dystopian science fiction that leaves you unsettled but also a little fired up, this one will be worth your time.
Pages: 78 | ASIN : B0DYK6YC2B
A Means of Self-Healing
The False God’s Lullaby is a collection of poetry and prose that explores the beauty and tragedy of the human experience, taking readers on a journey through your memories and emotions using in-depth imagery. Why was this an important collection for you to publish?
I’m entering the last phase of my productive life when I’ve found myself having reached the end of so many other journeys. Although I’ve been writing poetry since 1990 (when I first became interested in it), it wasn’t until I had reached an existential nadir so-to-speak in June of 2023. New poems just seemed to flow out of me, and so I went back to edit others I’d written over the years that I thought were suitable for publication. Something (more accurately someone) inside me desired to speak. It’s the time in our life when we wish to leave something that might survive our absence.
Were there any poems that were particularly difficult to write? If so, why?
If you’re asking, “Was it difficult for me to expose my inner life?” the answer is no. I began writing poetry after my profound experiences at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur. I’ve viewed my poetry as a means of self-healing (if you’ll excuse my use of a rather tedious California cliche).
How do you know when a poem is truly finished?
That is an interesting process question. It’s a matter of reaching a nodal point of comfortable satisfaction. This generally occurs within a week or so when the nagging feelings cease (eg. “Something’s not working but I can’t figure out what it is yet.”). Afterward, there’s a period of minor word-smithing that goes on for months. But finally, I have to tell myself to stop. There’s a point when “fine polishing” begins to weaken the poem’s impact.
What is the next book that you are working on, and when can your fans expect it to be out?
I’m already deep into investigating and writing my third collection of poetry (and perhaps some prose) focused on the works of Jacques Lacan and others on topics such as the connection between nothingness and spirituality and transformation. It’s largely a continuation of my interests in the multiplicity of selfhood. The working title is The Shadowed Crossing from a stanza in Rainer Maria Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus.
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The poetry is presented by topics that move like moods. The collection begins with contemplations of what the author calls “interior worlds.” This comprises over half of the poems and are the first and last titled sections. Interior worlds are expressed in such poems as “Memory,” “Confluence,” and “Longing.” This is followed by “Closeness and Distance” with poems describing experiences of both sexual (“Absolution”) and emotional intimacy (“Endearment”), as well as withdrawal (“Disillusionment”). The mid-topic sections move into the darker subjects of mortality (“Wandering,” “Big Sur”) and despair (“Awaiting the Pandemic”). Pulling back from these dark explorations are the poems found in “Lightness of Being.” These range from metaphorically comedic sexuality (“The Drummer’s Advice”) to a gathering with friends (“Friday Dinner”). “Interiors Worlds” are returned to with a prolific, seven-part poem exploring the external and internal aspects of familiarity (“Home”) and ends with the poem from which the book is named (“The False God’s Lullaby”). The final section is a small collection of prose pieces that add context to many of the poems. It also ends with a work from which the title poem was created.
Two major themes form the basis of internal worlds. First is the notion expressed by Lou Andreas-Salome’ of primitive consciousness arising in-utero. The poet fuses this with Soren Kierkegaard’s notion that we internally possess a sense of “the eternal.” The second theme ponders the implications of evolutionary neurobiology: that we are largely governed by the ancient powers of our animal brain (eg. “Limbic, paralimbic structures”). What Freud called “The It.” These are explored in the poems “Confluence,” “The Ancient Within,” and “Otherness.”
Despite the deep, dark themes of life that pervade many of these works, the author endeavors to find for himself and his readers how these encounters unavoidably lead to a sense of endearment and gratitude for life itself. In this, the author reveals the influence of his most beloved poet, Rainer Maria Rilke; for whom the poem “Wandering Rainer” was written.
On the Verge
Marie Rickmyer’s On the Verge is a delicate, unflinching collection of poems exploring life, trauma, and family. Each piece drips with nostalgia, capturing the quiet fragility of memory—like a glass pane trembling under the weight of lived experience. Rickmyer invites readers into intimate spaces: kitchens brimming with warmth and chaos, childhoods that linger like faint scars, and moments suspended between joy and sorrow. Here, nostalgia and trauma are not at odds but intertwined, stitched together by subtle, aching beauty—a weight of sunlight, the quiet despair of witnessing your mother as both parent and person.
Reading these poems feels like overhearing deeply personal conversations—tender, raw, and unfiltered. Rickmyer’s words evoke the weariness of her mother, the emptiness left by absence, and the heavy silence of unspoken longings. It is not a collection concerned with life’s grandeur but with its endurance: the sacred moments hidden within the mundane.
From the start, On the Verge captivated me with its thematic focus on memory, trauma, and fractured families. Admittedly, I hesitated at first—the poem structure and style felt unconventional—but the writing quickly grew on me. Each piece unfolded like a film, vivid and visceral, with no pretense or grandiosity. Rickmyer’s simplicity is piercing. Her lines feel less like crafted poetry and more like confessions, whispered truths, or rants from someone intimately familiar. For a moment, you are there—in her mother’s kitchen, at the edge of her grief, alongside flowers bathed in memory—transported not just into her life but, uncannily, into your own. The poems “Pantoum on Mother” and “Elegy for My Brother” are especially powerful, confronting the quiet burdens we carry and the losses we never fully release. Rickmyer captures what we inherit and what we endure, often at the same time. Her language is so personal, her imagery so immediate, that the connection feels inevitable. It resonates deeply, like a shared ache you never realized existed.
Marie Rickmyer’s On the Verge holds a quiet power, subtle yet relentless, like a stream carving its path through stone. By the final poem, I felt as though I had lived through a lifetime of someone else’s struggles and small victories. It is a book I will return to—a companion for moments when I need to be reminded of the quiet beauty of endurance. On the Verge is intensely personal yet strangely familiar, as though Rickmyer isn’t just telling her story but yours, too. It is a testament to the weight of memory and the tenderness of survival—an unforgettable offering of truth, nostalgia, and fragile beauty.
Pages: 74 | ASIN : B0DFMVG9DD
Echoes of Broken Vows
Logan Glass’s Echoes of Broken Vows plunges readers into the dark and haunting world of the Eidolon, a powerful cult promising immortality through grotesque and morally corrupt rituals, rituals that often claim innocent lives. Sam and Rowan, once devout members, find themselves crushed under the weight of guilt after years of complicity. Desperate to redeem their souls and shatter the organization from within, they embark on a perilous journey to dismantle the cult they once served.
As they navigate this dangerous rebellion, Sam and Rowan grapple with profound emotions and embark on a journey of self-discovery. The novella explores themes of immortality, power abuse, personal guilt, and defiance, all against the chilling backdrop of the Eidolon’s shadowy chambers and unnerving ceremonies. Glass’s vivid descriptions make these scenes feel disturbingly real, evoking an oppressive atmosphere that mirrors the horrors of unchecked power, a timely parallel to real-world systems clinging desperately to control.
Rowan’s character stands out for his intense internal conflict. His guilt and longing for redemption are palpable, making it easy to sympathize with his struggle. In contrast, Sam’s daring spirit and quick thinking bring balance to the story. His boldness complements Rowan’s introspection, and their bond feels authentic and emotionally resonant. While the novella’s pacing is generally tight, some moments, particularly during Rowan’s reflections, can feel a bit slower. However, these sections also serve to deepen the portrayal of his moral turmoil, adding layers to his character.
Echoes of Broken Vows is a dark, intense, and thought-provoking read. Despite its brevity, the story achieves remarkable depth, offering fully realized characters and a chilling exploration of its themes. A gripping novella, it’s sure to linger with readers long after the final page.
Pages: 97 | ASIN : B0DKJX9CZD
Societal Observations and Reflections
Desuetude follows an elite hunter of dangerous creatures struggling to find her place in an ever-changing world dominated by factories and growing cityscapes. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?
The inspiration for my story was watching society develop and change, both as a whole and in my personal life. I have a background in the social sciences. This allowed me to see the underlying trends and possibilities for the future impartially. My hometown had transformed over the last fifteen years from about 50K people to 150K people. I watched my world being bulldozed and remade; this was a huge influence on my writing of Desuetude.
How long did it take you to imagine, draft, and write the world your characters live in?
I started the book in 2020. My final first draft was completed in 2022. It took me over another year of editing before I got it copyrighted in 2023. This work taught me a ton as a writer and helped me grow immensely.
There was a lot of time spent crafting the character traits in this novel. What was the most important factor for you to get right in your characters?
Isolation and observation were the most important factors for Desuetude. I wanted Val to seem and feel intensely separate from the world she was thrust into. The other characters she interacts with were designed to have a distant feel to them. Most of the characters don’t have name, and that was done purposely for reinforcing Val’s sense of isolation as Val’s world caves in around her. For the observations, Val was a hunter. Her entire job was to watch, study, and track her query. This translated over to her societal observations and reflections. Being detached gave her a unique perspective on urban life and technology. It gave her an objective view, free of technology’s influence.
I find a problem in well-written stories, in that I always want there to be another book to keep the story going. Is there a second book planned?
No. For this book there will not be a sequel. Val’s story is complete in this one installment.
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Technological selection is coming. There is only so much land left. Where there were once vast open spaces, there are now never-ending streets. Where there was once plant life, there are now factories and rows of buildings. Progress knows no mercy.
Val is aware of this. She has become a foreigner in her own homeland. Her hunting profession is dying out. Val is struggling to find her place in the new world, but what can one person do in a society that has forgotten them?
Desuetude is the exciting new literary sci-fi from Nicholas “Tac” Whitcomb.
