Article Needs Work

(3) How dull How lifeless How unlike himself he’s become or he’s apeshit, really what’s all this about going to cut his finger off for something it did last night? Will I be drunk as he wants me to be on Friday?

A gray late afternoon in winter. Elizabeth Bishop, dressed casually in a Harvard jersey, welcomes the interviewer and answers his polite questions about a gorgeous gilt mirror on her living-room wall. Yes, it is Venetian, those little blackamoors are Venetian, but it was picked up at an auction in Rio de Janeiro. The interviewer, sure…

Shreds of cloud pencil colored scratched on like nervous rapid doodles give way to a thunderstorm queering again the chance of snow. *     *      *      ”I do not cross my father’s ground      to any House or Town.” For her writing Emily Dickinson liked best the inside of used envelopes. Joseph Cornell sent a small box to…

(1) Nodding asleep sitting up a desire to have what might happen erased Will I be drunk on Friday night as you will be? My head is on my chest emptied. I want to. . .I want to my head is in the hands of sleep like having my life stop and begin again when…

[ This essay by Dr. Leavis appeared in England in The Listener, as a review of Ghan Shyam Singh's translation of Montale's poem (Black Sparrow Press and New Directions, 1970). The translation he quotes is Singh's.] Of Montale's work, it is to Xenia that I must confine myself, the reason being that, while I am…

[from an uncompleted poem]                  From the McMichael’s, Florence. She passed the Silver’s, the Johnson’s. She was walking to Martello and the bus. She was the woman who took care of me, and she was going shopping.      It was that one time in her life, a Saturday, an afternoon. She was alone again. Glen…

“This scene illustrates the timber line zone as it occurs in northern latitudes around the world. Here, at midday in December from an altitude of nine thousand feet, we look across a valley in the Ghost River region of Alberta, Canada. High altitudes, low temperatures, and steep slopes make this environment unfavorable for forest plants…

I am tired of being the child, the maiden aunt, the Poor Miss Bass who never had any chemistry, back with all those freshmen, too old and unprepared. I’m tired of sitting through the sports festival watching the cheerleaders, accurate and graceless, the girls with fat knees, the boys straining, lips pulled inward, eyes small…

some- times i am a nigger myself i work hard and i      say what have i     got a child learning to play piano a wife thats getting older i remember my father i remember him crying in a rocking chair      facing tea bags and hot water