When something irks you, let your anger build— Don’t spend it in a temporary snit. Don’t leave your smallest passion unfulfilled. “Let bygones be bygones,” say the weak-willed. Ha! Watch where a bygone goes, and bottle it. Appreciate your anger. Let it build Vast caves of vintage rage, best when chilled. Invest in every wrong…
May 24 A shake erupts, a self-guffaw. Some miles up, he reads a life, detailed with his own, by drugstore specs on a wasp-boy’s cord. His focus is keen, a screen. Elated as he gets in this fake air, the book’s a scream. Another shake. Across his aisle, two toddlers shriek strange alphabets and wail;…
Ellen Bryant Voigt, The Flexible Lyric, essays: These eloquent essays celebrate the art and craft of lyric poetry, passionately and astutely revisiting the work of poets from Shakespeare to Bishop. The book is an inspired argument, proving that the making of poems is not just a trade but a calling. (Georgia)
The man had cornered a great deal of money and when it got Hot he went—could go—where it was cool. As for The servants, well, tant pis. A.C. was not yet part Of the picture. But an icehouse. There you had it. The butler’s Gopher boy and an upstairs maid called Sophie (whose Lonely duties…
At the Boston airport they were separated. Julien had to go through the line for foreigners. He was carrying his big black artist’s portfolio, five feet by three, zipped up. In it were plans for all his major architectural projects. He looked very respectable, if pale. Austin, of course, had been waved through Immigration, and…
Derek Walcott, Tiepolo’s Hound, poems: Published with twenty-five full-color reproductions of Walcott’s own paintings, Tiepolo’s Hound is a stunning book-length poem that is at once the spiritual biography of Camille Pissarro, a history in verse of Impressionist painting, and a memoir of Walcott’s desire to catch the visual world in more than words. (FSG)
The overrated owe a great debt to the little: the pinpoint feet of shrimp unleash the tide pool billows. The mismatched flecks within the rock make granite glitter. Could the gnat impart the summer with her shimmer? Each spring the tightness of the soil is tirelessly relieved by the boring of a worm: she dares…
A hand is the terminus of a human arm, thirty-six or more connected bones and muscles, all designed for grasping but that’s not how it seems to many of us: the tourists on the lawn, shielding their eyes against the glare, me, waving back as though I were visible, the girl at the Burger…
In the cave, eons of time are marked in drops of water bled from stalactites. The old man guiding Phoebe is called Jean-Pierre. Short, hunched, bandy-legged, mostly toothless but still a smiler, he grabs Phoebe hard from behind, pulls her back into his chest, pointing with his penlight up into the cavern. There. Can you…
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