tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66440992011-12-02T15:03:20.409-05:00April is National Poetry MonthBehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.comBlogger1941100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-12546898597544742912011-04-22T23:33:00.000-04:002011-04-23T09:10:43.472-04:00

Sea-Fever I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-16873516145647356952011-04-21T12:11:00.003-04:002011-04-21T12:15:54.889-04:00

Sea Change.We're off to the shore for the only two not-gray or -rainy days predicted for the week. I really look forward to this yearly pilgrimage.maggie and milly and molly and may went down to the beach(to play one day)and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,andmilly befriended a stranded starwhose rays five languid fingers were;and molly was

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-5378851644540979992011-04-19T23:59:00.000-04:002011-04-20T01:17:45.112-04:00

Tongue-Tied.Some Doggerel from my Dad for a Dreary, Damp Day:Here is an old one. I have seen it in several places with no attribution like most of these things from ‘olden’ times.. Try to say it fast. A skunk sat on a stump.The stump thought the skunk stunk.The skunk thought the stump stunk .What stunk the skunk or the stump?Here is another better known: Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-60563716183747327602011-04-18T13:12:00.002-04:002011-04-18T13:15:35.749-04:00

Happy Patriots' Day! (Happy Marathon Monday, too!) Am sure that folks know the drill by now:Listen my children and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-55623520310789278372011-04-17T23:31:00.003-04:002011-04-17T23:50:07.206-04:00

Hate.It's interesting, but I've never actually *hated* anyone. Have held strong dislikes. Have had relationships that felt like the dream sequence at the start of 8 1/2. Haven't felt hate, though. At least not as described here, anyway: Hate PoemI hate you truly. Truly I do.Everything about me hates everything about you.The flick of my wrist hates you.The way I hold my pencil hates you.The

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-26330178617889015782011-04-16T23:06:00.005-04:002011-04-16T23:27:01.268-04:00

Emancipation.A friend sends this poem written by his ancestor highlighting the lot of those who put their money where the government's mouth was. Written after the American Civil War (the 150th anniversary of its start being this month), it is unfortunately not a dated piece:The following was written by J. H. Whitney in a book entitled "War Time Ballads". He was my Grandmother's

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-36287937511707721762011-04-15T23:39:00.002-04:002011-04-15T23:48:42.215-04:00

Marichiko is the pen name of a contemporary young woman who lives near the temple of Marishi-ben in Kyoto. Marishi-ben is an Indian, pre-Aryan, goddes of the dawn who is a bodhisattva in Buddhism and patron of geisha, prostitutes, women in childbirth and lovers.[...]-from One Hundred More Poems from the Japanese, Kenneth Rexroth.

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-39113891193764737612011-04-14T23:45:00.001-04:002011-04-15T23:39:37.277-04:00

Shami Mansei flourished in the early eights century. His lay name was Kasamaro. Governor of several provinces, he became a high court official and the next year became a monk.-from One Hundred More Poems from the Japanese, Kenneth Rexroth.

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-66636445961543989952011-04-13T23:47:00.000-04:002011-04-14T11:54:47.056-04:00

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished soulsare unbeautiful and have comfortable minds(also, with the church's protestant blessingsdaughters, unscented shapeless spirited)they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead,are invariably interested in so many things-at the present writing one still findsdelighted fingers knitting for the is it

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-4222404078367285222011-04-12T22:43:00.002-04:002011-04-12T22:53:11.007-04:00

Birdcall —for Elizabeth BishopTuwee, calls a bird near the house,Tuwee, cries another, downhill in the woods.No wind, early September, beeches and pines,Sumac aflame, tuwee, tuwee, a question and a faintBut definite response, tuwee, tuwee, as if engagedIn a conversation expected to continue all afternoon,Where is?—I’m here?—an upward inflection in Query and in response, a genetic libretto

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-43094222609519172002011-04-11T22:00:00.000-04:002011-04-12T22:31:58.140-04:00

Coincidentally enough, picked my favorite oyster-eating partner at the Airport today.The Chef-Michael HettichI can't help gleaming as I marvel at the oystersI gathered this morningfrom the airport, for you - because they are the muscleof the ocean, the flavorof tide, the lifeinside my own bodyand yours. Taste with your whole mouth,taste beyond yourself,swallow the muckof this brief eternityand

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-53258245165992568862011-04-10T21:16:00.000-04:002011-04-10T21:17:20.190-04:00

Had a Lovely day today hanging sheets out (where the birds couldn't cr@p on them). Planted my lettuce seeds. Knitted an awful lot. Got a bit pink-cheeked while thinking about the fin'amor friend who brought this bit of beauty to mind.

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-64584105172588045922011-04-09T19:22:00.002-04:002011-04-10T23:43:32.900-04:00

Another Rosebud from a Friend:"I have been browsing, and find it very good for me. The title of this caught my eye as my puppy (not so much of a puppy at 13) is named Corinna. I also thought it was really fun. I hope you enjoy it."Corinna’s Going a-MayingGet up, get up for shame! The blooming mornUpon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-26906829602256736952011-04-08T23:17:00.001-04:002011-04-09T19:20:50.644-04:00

EntreeThe flesh of cannibals is said, by some, to have the richest flavor.Each fiber drawn from proteins like itself,marbled with familiar fats,this muscle draws ironup the food chainfrom dumb dirtthrough lithe grassesand quick victims of four legs, then to.Though traces concentrateof what was sprayed on cropsor gathers, gamey, in fleshshot through with fear,a different compoundinterrupted skin,

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-33882191234524011622011-04-07T20:21:00.002-04:002011-04-07T20:30:23.344-04:00

PlansWhen I grow up I plan to keepEleven cats and let them sleepOn any bedspread that they wishAnd feed them people’s tuna fish.-Maxine KuminA huge thanks to Kathy in Michigan (who tells me that this is a favorite fun poem of hers) for not only having introduced me to Maxine Kumin, but to have saved everyone from my normal Rilke mourning weeds.

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-57221759192566500172011-04-05T23:00:00.001-04:002011-04-05T23:02:58.259-04:00

A translation of something very poetic, as I'm more of a translating type than a poetical one....Then came the third siege of the city which carried his name. In 860, while the Slavs were battering Constantinople, Constantine, on the Olympus of Asia Minor, was laying a trap for them. In the silence of his monk’s cell, he created the first letters of their alphabet. First, he invented rounded

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-7858139387944720682011-04-04T21:16:00.002-04:002011-04-04T21:23:27.153-04:00

We've been a little down and out lately. Paul was more unhappy than usual at the prospect of his birthday, too, which was yesterday. As it seems so short in supply, figured I'd offer a gift of hope this year:HopeHope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all,And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-25795400605401813652011-04-02T19:06:00.002-04:002011-04-02T19:20:52.569-04:00

Cat WhispererI could serve dinner on his backhe is so bent over. OnceI offered him a ridefrom Food Lion where he bought a sliver tower of gourmet cat food.He limped along Route Onetwo plastic bagshis ballast in the cruel March wind.-Liz Dolan(Wish I could find more about her.)

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-2631095983278180372011-04-01T22:56:00.003-04:002011-04-01T23:08:53.711-04:00

Wow, it's amazing how quickly April's rolled around. After a couple weeks of lovely, almost unseasonably warm weather, too, we ended up getting fooled with a snowstorm that blew in from the northeast. I'd not been round for this year's apparently long, hard New England Winter, so found the storm refreshing. None of my friends or neighbors were happy to have to lace up their boots, to slip on

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-8139604107820595482010-04-30T23:58:00.000-04:002010-05-01T00:27:09.362-04:00

And so ends another Poetry month. It's amazing how time flies.Aloha `OeHa`aheo ka ua i nâ paliKe nihi a`ela i ka naheleE hahai (uhai) ana paha i ka likoPua `âhihi lehua o ukaHui: Aloha `oe, aloha `oeE ke onaona noho i ka lipoOne fond embrace,A ho`i a`e auUntil we meet again`O ka hali`a aloha i hiki maiKe hone a`e nei iKu`u manawa`O `oe nô ka`u ipo alohaA loko e hana neiMaopopo ku`u `ike i ka

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-9700605344783232112010-04-30T23:55:00.001-04:002010-05-01T00:16:50.643-04:00

Even further inspired by the aforementioned Anglophone uses of this odd but fun meter, he thought he'd give Catullus himself a crack:My exercise in hendecasyllabics. First the Latin, indicating the elisions you need to make it scan right:Luget(e), O Veneres Cupidinesque,et quantum (e)st hominum venustiorum:passer mortuus est meae puellae,passer, deliciae meae puellae,quem plus ill(a) oculis suis

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-71013243141991911472010-04-30T23:50:00.003-04:002010-05-01T00:13:23.447-04:00

We'd been thinking about Catullus a fair bit recently - mainly his use of the Greek hendecasyllabic meter. It's a bit strange feeling at first, but actually puts kind of a spring in the step once one gets used to it. Anyway, Pavel got really inspired and found a couple English-language poems using this meter:HendecasyllabicsO you chorus of indolent reviewers,Irresponsible, indolent reviewers,

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-78433674976849622512010-04-29T23:34:00.002-04:002010-04-29T23:46:50.959-04:00

Took a drive up to Cape Ann today. For a bit of a change, decided to take a look around Gloucester. Passed by the Gorton's World Headquarters, which prompted Pavel to comment that we'd made it to the "Fish Monger to the World."It's sort of a long way to Chicago from the North Shore of Massachusetts geographically. In spirit, though, they're pretty close. Chicago HOG Butcher for the

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-35170591824253559962010-04-28T23:15:00.000-04:002010-04-29T23:34:42.368-04:00

Remember that original propos by Shakespeare from a few days ago? Here's a bit more:To his Coy MistressHad we but world enough, and time,This coyness, lady, were no crime.We would sit down and think which wayTo walk, and pass our long love's day;Thou by the Indian Ganges' sideShouldst rubies find; I by the tideOf Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood;And you should, if

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-39111868679342905322010-04-27T23:47:00.000-04:002010-04-28T12:54:53.803-04:00

Dad sent in a lovely, old favorite:The Arrow and the Song I shot an arrow into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For, so swiftly it flew, the sightCould not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For who has sight so keen and strong,That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oakI found the arrow, still unbroke;

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-48054847498912598522010-04-26T22:10:00.003-04:002010-04-26T22:26:03.050-04:00

This one came from a friend who remembers memorizing it as a kid back in elementary school. She particularly loved it due to its depiction of "the moon as an entity," and the connection she made with the stories she'd heard (She's half-Japanese) of the Rabbit in the Moon.SilverSlowly, silently, now the moonWalks the night in her silver shoon;This way, and that, she peers, and seesSilver fruit

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-60880846889157556062010-04-25T22:03:00.000-04:002010-04-26T22:09:48.510-04:00

Just a short one. It's been a busy, kind of crazy, exhausting day and I've not the energy to stay up much longer:First FigMY CANDLE burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends-- It gives a lovely light! -Edna St. Vincent Millay

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-64995264514086100292010-04-24T19:05:00.002-04:002010-04-24T19:10:27.558-04:00

More from Pavel in honor of Shakespeare's Birthday:"A few years ago I suggested sonnet 74 for Shakespeare's traditional birthday, also death-day. That is an optimistic one about the survival of his ideas beyond the grave as "the better part of me." I imagine it to be the poet's own epitaph. More typical of the sonnets' gloomy meditations on evanescence, and the grieving for loss of friends,

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-11464825418549715562010-04-23T21:51:00.003-04:002010-04-23T22:00:00.476-04:00

I'm 39 right now, for all those who are innerested. I love my crow's feet and my smile lines. I honestly think, too, that I'm a much nicer person then I was at, say, 13 or 26 (marriageable, then old-maidish at the time of the poet). II.When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,Will be a tatter'd weed, of

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-68381981324523158662010-04-22T19:31:00.002-04:002010-04-22T19:40:42.877-04:00

Mid Fourth Month, the birds have been starting their mating rituals. Au petit matin, I'm woken up by the mocking birds and robins. This Spring, this has sort of been making me think about lost partners and resulting holes in hearts.212. Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking1OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the Ninth-month

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-63991618491336606072010-04-21T19:24:00.002-04:002010-04-22T19:30:49.651-04:00

I Shall Never Be Different. Love Me.I feel as though right now I should be petitioning to St. Jude, rather than to St. Cecilia. Still, the music comforts me. (Listen to the music, please. It and the words are a perfect couple.) Then there is this:I am defeatWhen it knows itCan now do nothingBy suffering.Maybe Grace is in part knowing when to give up on something.

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-89861493628372813182010-04-20T12:13:00.001-04:002010-04-20T12:14:45.276-04:00

Il faut cultiver son jardin.Si J'avais un petit jardin.Si J'avais un petit jardinJe m'en irais chaque matinDans les parfums et dans la brisePour voir, pendant que je revaiSi mon jardin ne m'a pas faitUne surprise.J'irais regarder de tout prèsSi les rosiers sont en progrèset si les bourgeons vont écloreou bien si les lilas frileuxtrouvant qu'il fait trop froid pour euxtardent encore!Si j'avais un

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-19542397838965563892010-04-19T21:46:00.002-04:002010-04-19T21:51:44.143-04:00

Yup, it's that time of year again!Paul Revere's RideListen my children and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower as a signal light,-

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-38178913595931302202010-04-18T23:26:00.003-04:002010-04-19T00:04:39.852-04:00

The movements my hands were making yesterday while I picked apart a bit of knitting work brought on the oddest sensation. For a moment, was transported back 300 years to someplace far away. Was working my lace while thinking on the one who best complemented me.(The citation that opens the scene translates roughly to 'we are searching for ourselves in one another.')***The Color of Pomegranates

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-57304992455578181112010-04-17T17:08:00.003-04:002010-04-17T17:25:28.254-04:00

Leitmotif.A friend of mine mentioned to me that a favorite musician set this one to music on her latest album:maggie and milly and molly and maymaggie and milly and molly and maywent down to the beach(to play one day)and maggie discovered a shell that sangso sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,andmilly befriended a stranded starwhose rays five languid fingers were;and molly was chased by a

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-37463797583241984452010-04-16T19:17:00.002-04:002010-04-16T19:29:32.160-04:00

Charles d'Orleans wrote most of his poetry while a prisoner of war. Got me to thinking of Richard Lovelace's best known work, composed, of course, during his time in prison:To Althea, from Prison WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fetter'd to her eye, The birds that

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-62851315533324449092010-04-15T14:20:00.000-04:002010-04-16T14:36:46.294-04:00

The Snail.L'EscargotL'escargot s'est logéSous un des pommiers du vergerSa maison ronde et duren'a qu'une pièce, mais il jurequ'il se moque du mauvais tempsEt qu'il y vit toujours contentDans le vergerSous un pommierMonsieur l'escargot se promèneSa maison l'abrite sans peine;Si son logement n'est pas grand,Il se moque du mauvais temps.-adapté de l'anglais(Kind of ironic to be supplying a

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-60477633102639674202010-04-14T13:50:00.000-04:002010-04-16T14:20:12.867-04:00

Domestic Archaeology.The Frenchie, like me, has been slowly but surely sifting through the effects of the past couple generations left to him when his parents passed away. Recently, he found a notebook belong to his mother where she'd jotted down favorite lyrics, poems, etc. Interesting to look back on these things and not have the same attachments as I have going through my own mother's things

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-69106407219026041652010-04-13T13:09:00.005-04:002010-04-16T13:40:53.831-04:00

Then, There's Martial's Take On Things:Issa est passere nequior Catulli,Issa est purior osculo columbae,Issa est blandior omnibus puellis,Issa est carior Indicis lapillis,Issa est deliciae catella Publi, Hanc tu, si queritur, loqui putabis.Sentit tristitiamque gaudiumque. . . .et desiderio coacta ventris gutta pallia non fefellit ulla,sed blando pede suscitat toroquedeponi monet et rogat

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-63700763567765423312010-04-12T23:07:00.003-04:002010-04-12T23:12:33.029-04:00

Sparrows have started pairing off in the yard; it's that time of the year. That and Sappho were what got me thinking about Catullus the other day. This, too: Passer Mortuus EstDeath devours all lovely things; Lesbia with her sparrowShares the darkness,--presently Every bed is narrow.Unremembered as old rain Dries the sheer libation,And the little petulant hand Is an annotation.After all, my

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-90935014207924255792010-04-11T22:33:00.000-04:002010-04-12T23:06:59.118-04:00

Sparrows.A considerable chunk of what what remains today of Catullus's work refers to 'Lesbia,' his pseudonym for his lover Clodia, apparently a poet in her own right. These works, some of which are just fragmentary, run the gamut of emotions from ecstatic joy to despair and even cynicism. Probably the best known of these might be his musings on someone his love loved more than she loved him:

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-81173052098711173122010-04-10T09:32:00.003-04:002010-04-10T09:40:41.198-04:00

Something from Pavel:A poem about fatherhood. It was in a high-school poetry reader of mine. The phrase "slimesilvered stone" stuck in my mind. Found the rest again. Remarkable plays of sound in the first stanza.On the Beach at FontanaWind whines and whines the shingle,The crazy pierstakes groan;A senile sea numbers each singleSlimesilvered stone. From whining wind and colderGrey sea I wrap

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-91673834178704611382010-04-09T21:45:00.002-04:002010-04-09T21:54:51.291-04:00

Apologies for the skip. Have been battling both on the physical and mental fronts. The friend below's post got me to thinking a fair bit - both productively and not much so. Anyway, what I can offer is two chestnuts, as I have them always with me:Griefs.I measure every grief I meetWith analytic eyes;I wonder if it weighs like mine,Or has an easier size.I wonder if they bore it long,Or did it

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-965243258623931452010-04-07T23:14:00.003-04:002010-04-07T23:21:02.595-04:00

A friend who would like to remain anonymous sent this along. Found it in the newspaper the day they left an abusive relationship. Has kept a copy of it in their wallet ever since then.After A While After a while you learnThe subtle difference betweenholding a hand and chaining a souland you learn that love doesn’t meanleaningand company doesn’t meansecurity.And you begin to learnthat kisses are

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-27981644965942928202010-04-06T19:17:00.002-04:002010-04-06T19:34:30.204-04:00

It's both a bit comforting and disquieting to think on how little things change, despite time and space.To Have Taken the TroubleI’m broke and practically homeless.This fatal city, Antioch,has devoured all my money:this fatal city with its extravagant life. But I’m young and in excellent health.Prodigious master of things Greek,I know Aristotle and Plato through and through,poets, orators, or

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-78898548657993221982010-04-05T20:47:00.004-04:002010-04-05T21:02:55.066-04:00

OzymandiasI met a traveller from an antique land,Who said -- "two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert ... near them, on the sand,Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lips, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;And on the

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-59655977940396344932010-04-04T15:23:00.004-04:002010-04-04T15:53:32.718-04:00

Happy Easter!(From one of my favorite Easter works.)(When I chase down one of my Messiah scores, will get the words from this duet down; the sound quality and diction are both excellent, so not much of a problem understanding. Love the Tenor's "dancing on the forehead of God" metaphor. Back when I used to sing, loved a lot of the folks who got threatened with excommunication under the Council

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-1773474806742361132010-04-04T14:26:00.003-04:002010-04-04T15:18:11.026-04:00

Apologies for no post for yesterday: we were out enjoying the beautiful, summery day with an adventure of sorts for Pavel's Birthday. Normally when we take walks, we head north or west; lots of water and trees there, therefore lots of birds to look at. Yesterday, though, Pavel wanted to visit one of the sites near us on the Freedom Trail. So, we wandered on over to Charlestown to the Bunker

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-15867528296133442972010-04-02T18:25:00.004-04:002010-04-02T20:16:17.478-04:00

What to Make of Modern/Feminist Interpretations of Sappho?Recent readings in History have caused me to wonder more about the point of view of the historians, semioticians, linguists, etc than of the times I'd been interested in. The remains of Sappho's body of work and how it had been interpreted by the whole Gertrude Stein crew at the turn of the 20th century kind of brought it into sharp focus

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-32524039188528477562010-04-01T12:39:00.003-04:002010-04-01T13:12:48.522-04:00

According to Amy Kelly in her Eleanor and the Four Kings, what remained of the Western Empire at the time wasn't much of a place for a young woman, either:"If the sojourn among the shrines of Byzantium was a nine days' wonder to the king, it was an awakening experience for the queen, whose education had progressed just far enough to make her travels profitable. It opened her eyes to vast, lofty,

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-39500952177319942012010-04-01T00:11:00.002-04:002010-04-01T00:18:26.764-04:00

Wow, another year gone by and another Poetry Month to celebrate.Have been doing this for quite a long time now, so hopefully the drill's apparent: Although I'm just posting what moves me at the time, I do take requests and would love to hear about what moves you. If there is a poem that is particularly near and dear to your heart, why not talk about it? Send me a link to your website if you post

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-28599342932466949522009-04-30T23:42:00.002-04:002009-04-30T23:48:26.374-04:00

My, how the month flew by. Figured that I'd close up shop for another year with a favorite Shakespeare Monologue:"All the world's a stage,And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances;And one man in his time plays many parts,His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;And then the whining school-boy, with his

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-84108606790713015622009-04-29T23:35:00.000-04:002009-04-30T23:42:07.436-04:00

There have been many almost unbearably beautiful days this Spring. Have been reveling in the gorgeousness.God's World O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!Thy mists that roll and rise!Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sagAnd all but cry with colour! That gaunt cragTo crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!World, World, I cannot get thee close

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-55022651967162777162009-04-28T22:30:00.002-04:002009-04-28T22:35:53.350-04:00

Breakfast.(this morning i had a banana, two apples,and a spoonful of damson plum jam; was a good start for a hot day.)This Is Just To Say I have eatenthe plumsthat were inthe iceboxand whichyou were probablysavingfor breakfastForgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so cold- William Carlos Williams

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-85675655884245845362009-04-27T22:14:00.005-04:002009-04-27T22:24:21.985-04:00

A Poem about Law, as opposed to 'justice' (whatever the hell that means nowadays).

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-67334992014023236442009-04-26T23:00:00.003-04:002009-04-26T23:09:49.922-04:00

"For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: “It might have been!”A sad one from my dad.Maud MullerMaud Muller, on a summer’s day,Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealthOf simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry gleeThe mock-bird echoed from his tree. But when she glanced to the far-off town,White from its hill-slope

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-89492925325958676362009-04-25T17:46:00.002-04:002009-04-25T17:52:13.120-04:00

Sure does feel like Summertime right now. (whew)Summertime Summertime,And the livin' is easyFish are jumpin'And the cotton is highYour daddy's richAnd your mamma's good lookin'So hush little babyDon't you cryOne of these morningsYou're going to rise up singingThen you'll spread your wingsAnd you'll take to the skyBut till that morningThere's a'nothing can harm you-George GershwinGosh, I love

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-76980071488626868152009-04-24T17:57:00.001-04:002009-04-25T18:00:11.735-04:00

The ocean is such a short ride, heck, even walk away, and yet I never seem to have the time or energy to visit. This is ironic, given how much better I feel after having spent time in it or beside it.maggie and milly and molly and may maggie and milly and molly and may went down to the beach(to play one day)and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn't remember her

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-80101746933993901532009-04-23T12:09:00.002-04:002009-04-23T12:11:16.276-04:00

Water Everything on the earth bristled, the bramblepricked and the green threadnibbled away, the petal fell, fallinguntil the only flower was the falling itself.Water is another matter,has no direction but its own bright grace,runs through all imaginable colors,takes limpid lessonsfrom stone,and in those functionings plays outthe unrealized ambitions of the foam.-Pablo Neruda There's been

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-7464093513328073822009-04-22T23:19:00.002-04:002009-04-22T23:26:54.247-04:00

Lots of rain the past couple days. That's okay; we kind of need it. This year's April has been kind of a dry one. As I sit up here in my little garret, can hear the drops pattering on the skylight windows. It's a very comforting sound, this. Reminds me that I'm safe and secure; brings me back to a time when I was little and everything was okay. It will be easy to sleep tonight wrapped in

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-63392117029989870962009-04-21T22:21:00.002-04:002009-04-21T22:28:56.140-04:00

The forsythia, primroses, pansies and crocuses will soon give way to cherries, azaleas, daffodils and lilacs, which will then fade into the background for the dogwoods, roses, wisteria and peonies. So goes this natural progression of blossoming, going to seed, then lying dormant until the next Spring.Nothing Gold Can Stay Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-71546593642351384392009-04-20T19:41:00.003-04:002009-04-20T19:45:24.914-04:00

It's Patriots Day. You know the drill.Paul Revere's RideLISTEN, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower, as a signal

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-28452020075662496142009-04-19T13:56:00.004-04:002009-04-19T14:09:31.104-04:00

In Spring, this girl's heart goes a-pitter patter for a good patter song - Advent of SpringUnder the beechful eye, When causeless brandslings bring, Let the froddering crooner cry,And the braddled sapster sing.For never and never againWill the tottering bauble bray, For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,And the throngers croon in May!The wracking globe unstrung,Unstrung in the frittering

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-90592299990953335762009-04-18T13:22:00.000-04:002009-04-19T13:26:36.094-04:00

If.Thenand now

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-18432799236790325542009-04-17T13:05:00.003-04:002009-04-19T13:14:26.271-04:00

There is no limit to how high our spirits can soar if we only allow them the freedom to do so. To Althea From Prison When Love with unconfined wingsHovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at my grates;When I lie tangled in her hairAnd fettered with her eye,The birds that wanton in the airKnow no such liberty.When flowing cups pass swiftly roundWith no allaying Thames,Our

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-50545497152275329722009-04-16T14:16:00.002-04:002009-04-16T14:20:36.110-04:00

I don't know. Maybe it's that I've always felt myself more able to take care of myself after a rejection. Maybe it's the thought that I don't merit or maybe don't even want to deal with too much of another's ardor. The More Loving One Looking up at the stars, I know quite wellThat, for all they care, I can go to hell,But on earth indifference is the leastWe have to dread from man or

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-33465997701198004112009-04-15T22:59:00.002-04:002009-04-15T23:06:24.379-04:00

Instead of worrying about impending deadlines, have been spending way too much time among the Romans lately, revisiting Aeneas's exploits, and other events leading to the founding of the city which so influenced what we are today. Have really been getting into reading history lately as, not only can you move about location-wise, you can jump from age to age. Talk about great escapes.There is no

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-8265887833649121372009-04-14T23:06:00.002-04:002009-04-14T23:10:31.826-04:00

Dreams Hold fast to dreams For if dreams dieLife is a broken-winged birdThat cannot fly.Hold fast to dreamsFor when dreams goLife is a barren fieldFrozen with snow.-Langston Hughes(Am a bit overwhelmed; don't know how everything that needs to be done will be done. One, maybe two dreams are keeping me afloat right now.)

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-33023599612993887892009-04-13T12:41:00.002-04:002009-04-13T12:46:49.580-04:00

Stood outside in the near freezing morning to admire my violas and pansies. Small, unassuming, but able to withstand an unexpected chill, they are weathering very nicely and infusing a not particularly charming place with a bit of much-needed cheer.The Violet Down in a green and shady bedA modest violet grew;Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,As if to hide from view.And yet it was a

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-23695881805258210792009-04-12T22:28:00.004-04:002009-04-12T22:56:53.619-04:00

Across the street at the hospital, I saw the first blooming cherry tree of the year. Brave thing to put its blossoms out on such a chilly day. A Shropshire Lad, II Loveliest of trees, the cherry nowIs hung with bloom along the bough,And stands about the woodland rideWearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten,Twenty will not come again,And take from seventy springs a

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-49491721991873569122009-04-11T22:18:00.000-04:002009-04-12T22:25:01.509-04:00

Spring Cleaning.Among other things, I did 12 loads of laundry. Am so looking to curling up in the crisp cotton sheets that make their appearance this time of year. Ode to IroningPoetry is white:it comes from the water covered with drops,it wrinkles and piles up,the skin of this planet must be stretched,the sea of its whiteness must be ironed,and the hands move and move,the holy surfaces are

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-81621068377562713802009-04-10T23:57:00.001-04:002009-04-10T23:59:40.709-04:00

At three minutes to midnight, I was desperate for a poem to post for today. Poetryittakesa lot ofdesperationdissatisfactionanddisillusiontowriteafewgoodpoems.it's notforeverybodyeither towriteitor even toreadit. -Charles Bukowski

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-12506247840394376902009-04-09T17:15:00.002-04:002009-04-09T17:20:43.831-04:00

Dusting needs to be done here a couple times a week due to our surfeit of cat dander, people dander, plaster dust (the house being a work in progress) and urban grit. Will probably have achieved some sort of enlightenment when I can be so graceful about this activity; it's easily my least favorite chore.Dusting Thank you for these tinyparticles of ocean salt,pearl-necklace viruses,winged

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-51962178520424036582009-04-08T10:42:00.002-04:002009-04-08T10:52:45.942-04:00

Though a lot of where I live is green and thriving, there are many places that are not. My walk to school brings me through a particularly blighted area, an area where the only green one might see is from the weeds pushing up through cracks or perhaps a sickly tree that put forth a few leaves. Gray and black is the dominant color scheme.The soundscape is dominated by car horns and the roar of

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-65136674572246663762009-04-07T23:44:00.002-04:002009-04-07T23:49:50.337-04:00

Tonight I'm knitting a mesh bag from recycled cotton to pass on to a lady in Atlanta as part of a group effort to promote sustainable living. (That sounds pretty Cambridge to me.)the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished soulsare unbeautiful and have comfortable minds(also, with the church's protestant blessingsdaughters, unscented shapeless

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-58478655775539564712009-04-06T22:32:00.002-04:002009-04-06T23:01:25.828-04:00

While putting together yesterday's post, I got to read a fair bit about Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I knew that she married later on in life and I knew that her husband was younger than her, but had no idea about a lot of the details. What strength of character and courage it must have taken for her to leave her family, to escape the clutches of her authoritarian father at a time when this just

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-31235359888782559262009-04-05T17:58:00.004-04:002009-04-05T18:34:54.185-04:00

We're working on our bird songs now. So far, I only know a few: the robin, the cardinal, the jay, the sparrow, the titmouse, the chickadee. This afternoon, was sitting out in the yard listening to the mad chatter and trying to isolate the individual songs. I think I got a few correct, anyway. Closed my eyes for a bit and, while listening to the songs, got to thinking about Pan's flute.

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-21635236103913619042009-04-04T12:05:00.003-04:002009-04-04T12:20:23.912-04:00

Lots of folks say that we don't actually get a Spring here in Massachusetts, that we go straight from Winter to Summer. I don't really agree with that. Granted, the indicators are bit more subtle here than where I grew up, but there's still a clear buffer between the two extremes. For example, there is a gradual change in the angle of light in addition to the lengthening of days. And the

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-34576137499979229532009-04-03T11:13:00.000-04:002009-04-04T12:05:13.599-04:00

Crossroads The second half of my life will be black to the white rind of the old and fading moon. The second half of my life will be water over the cracked floor of these desert years. I will land on my feet this time, knowing at least two languages and who my friends are. I will dress for the occasion, and my hair shall be whatever color I please.Everyone will go on celebrating the old

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-57407290124053831532009-04-02T21:34:00.003-04:002009-04-02T22:16:47.316-04:00

Realpolitik.Have recently been reading about the confusing and awful period just after the French Revolution to about the Franco-Prussian War. It is here that we to see the birth of Communism, the second French Empire (under Napoleon III), the unification of Italy and, of course, the clashes between Austria and Prussia. Political maneuverings and eventual communication breakdowns were

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-89206606836844205412009-04-01T10:11:00.003-04:002009-04-01T10:21:33.588-04:00

In some places, today is April Fool's Day. In other places, one celebrates with an April Fish. Given this, I thought that perhaps it would be good to start things off with a little something pertaining to fools as well as fish:***Fish CrierI KNOW a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble in January. He dangles herring before prospective

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-30893128211491980222009-03-31T20:05:00.002-04:002009-03-31T20:14:09.215-04:00

April Again. Und was gibt's? Well, all this month, I'm going to try to put down a poem (or two) a day with a bit of commentary. If you would like to contribute (and I love it when folks do!), please drop me a line either in the comments or via email (see right sidebar).There you have it.

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-69309660198963403782008-04-16T13:45:00.003-04:002008-04-16T13:49:22.767-04:00

Today I dressed up. Not because I felt good, but just because I knew I had to make some sort of effort or not leave the house at all. Have been complimented quite a lot, but it's not really helping me. Just can't seem to get beyond the aches, pains and generally poor mood.A Hand-MirrorHold it up sternly--see this it sends back, (who is it? is it you?) Outside fair costume, within ashes and

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-37565864167820330352008-04-15T13:32:00.000-04:002008-04-16T13:45:00.022-04:00

My life has been the poem I would have writ, But I could not both live and utter it.-Henry David Thoreau.I often wonder about whether or not keeping up my journal is a fool's errand. Still, something keeps compelling me to continue.

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-27366211622619951022008-04-14T12:41:00.000-04:002008-04-16T12:48:01.990-04:00

The DanceIn Breughel's great picture, The Kermess,the dancers go round, they go round andaround, the squeal and the blare and thetweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddlestipping their bellies, (round as the thick-sided glasses whose wash they impound)their hips and their bellies off balanceto turn them. Kicking and rolling aboutthe Fair Grounds, swinging their butts, thoseshanks must be sound to

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-71206717674500443922008-04-13T12:37:00.001-04:002008-04-16T12:40:10.783-04:00

Then there is more expansive Emily.THE BRAIN is wider than the sky, For, put them side by side, The one the other will include With ease, and you beside. The brain is deeper than the sea, For, hold them, blue to blue, The one the other will absorb, As sponges, buckets do. The brain is just the weight of God, For, lift them, pound for pound, And they will

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-41841863343906649482008-04-12T12:28:00.002-04:002008-04-16T12:36:55.963-04:00

This is a side of Whitman I don't tend to think about much - the sorrowful one, the more introspective, and perhaps even slightly depressed one.I Sit and Look OutI sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon alloppression and shame;I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish withthemselves, remorseful after deeds done;I see, in low life, the mother misused by her

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-3066683871588710822008-04-11T12:08:00.000-04:002008-04-16T12:22:17.754-04:00

I guess I stand in good company when I say I want to blow this two-bit town and head for the hills.A LetterDear brother, would you know the life,Please God, that I would lead?On the first wheels that quit this weary townOver yon western bridges I would rideAnd with a cheerful benison forsakeEach street and spire and roof incontinent.Then would I seek where God might guide my steps,Deep in a

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-16458942063272887862008-04-10T16:11:00.002-04:002008-04-10T16:43:32.161-04:00

A lot of focus has been on the Free Tibet movement lately. One can argue the merits for or against, of course. In my opinion, anything that makes the Chinese government uncomfortable can't be all that bad.What I found interesting was this bit in the news. It surprises me that it took China this long to start framing their abysmal treatment of the Uighurs in some sort of global terrorist threat

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-55773169081252963792008-04-09T16:05:00.002-04:002008-04-09T16:10:32.846-04:00

8 Count from my bedI watch3 birdson a telephonewire.one flies off.thenanother.one is left,thenit toois gone.my typewriter is tombstone still.and I amreduced to birdwatching.just thought I'dlet youknow,fucker.-Charles Bukowski

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-35608375865312191402008-04-08T19:22:00.004-04:002008-04-08T20:17:41.384-04:00

I know things are getting bad when I start losing concentration. When things like the phone ringing, emails or even people asking me how my day is going start making my head spin in a fit of rage. Relationships during the brighter periods become entanglements I need to extricate myself from. Sleep becomes an obsession. It becomes apparent in my writing when the prose becomes dull or flat.

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-59315718707514424812008-04-07T13:31:00.002-04:002008-04-07T13:30:52.168-04:00

A resurrected post on the insights of a thoughtful friend:I ended up with two classics. They may bore you because although I did search long, they were easy to find and not very original or different. I picked them because they speak of spring in a way that I have never considered. I found it actually fascinating that I had never thought this way or even read of men, or women for that matter,

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-26835367898195061412008-04-06T23:13:00.001-04:002008-04-07T13:31:45.781-04:00

Last SnowAlthough the snow still lingersHeaped on the ivy's blunt webbed fingersAnd painting tree-trunks on one ide,Here in the sunlit rideThe fresh unchristened things appear,Leaf, spathe and stem, With crumbs of earth clinging ot themTo show the way they cameBut no flower yet to tell their name, And one green spear Stabbing a dead leaf from belowKills winter at a blow.-Andrew Young (from The

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-37537938613097482712008-04-05T10:42:00.002-04:002008-04-05T10:58:28.120-04:00

Harbinger of Spring.Yes, today was the first time this year that the Bluebird of Happiness woke me up. At a quarter of four in the morning. Even the cats give me 'til about 6:30. I Heard a Linnet CourtingI heard a linnet courting His lady in the spring:His mates were idly sporting, Nor stayed to hear him sing His song of love.—I fear my speech distorting His tender love.The

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-42898308554041023722008-04-04T22:32:00.000-04:002008-04-05T10:42:35.162-04:00

This little delight comes from Dr. Bob who uses it in his course to talk about social exclusion:Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear PurpleWhen I am an old woman, I shall wear purplewith a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer glovesand satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.I shall sit down on the pavement when I am

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-78811448425053892362008-04-03T15:32:00.002-04:002008-04-03T15:43:40.670-04:00

One of my favorite people in the world turned 40 today. I'd like to give him the gift of looking forward in hope rather than being unhappy about the past. (Somehow, though, I think that that's something only he can give himself.) Crossroads The second half of my life will be black to the white rind of the old and fading moon. The second half of my life will be water over the cracked floor of

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-66546533372260992682008-04-02T15:34:00.003-04:002008-04-02T15:50:05.219-04:00

Tomatoes don't really bother me that much. Mine always grow, though I may end up with more pickled green ones than reds for salads by the end of the season. Where I've been finding disappointment lately has been with the so-called hardy "native" plants. Three years back, I planted lupines and they never came up. My thyme and mint both disappeared last year. Then there was the year of the one

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-37404077977653049282008-04-01T12:49:00.002-04:002008-04-01T13:02:50.344-04:00

SpringTo what purpose, April, do you return again?Beauty is not enough.You can no longer quiet me with the rednessOf little leaves opening stickily.I know what I know.The sun is hot on my neck as I observeThe spikes of the crocus.The smell of the earth is good.It is apparent that there is no death.But what does that signify?Not only under ground are the brains of menEaten by maggots.Life in

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-11946414149559186992007-04-30T10:15:00.000-04:002007-04-30T19:53:56.848-04:00

Swan SongBenjamin Britten (whose birthday fell on St. Cecilia's Day) composed this piece both to honor an important English musical tradition and as a nod to Henry Purcell, with whom he felt he had a particular kinship. W. H. Auden wrote the words, which are listed below. One cannot, however, just read the text. This piece, one of my favorite choral works, and arguably some of the best vocal

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6644099.post-59890640287196752972007-04-27T14:55:00.000-04:002007-04-27T15:32:29.528-04:00

What Is Man?The big highlight of my monthly trip to Mt Auburn (aside from seeing my doctor; he's a hoot!) is the leisurely walk along the Charles and bit of lollygagging in Harvard Square I indulge myself in afterwards. For some reason yesterday, I felt particularly drawn to Harvard Yard, to Emerson Hall, to this line from the psalms: 1 O Jehovah, our Lord, How excellent is thy name in all the

Behttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09376221923850378802noreply@blogger.com0