Custome is the most certain Mistresse of language, as the publicke stampe makes current money. But we must not be too frequent with the mint, every day coyning. —Ben Jonson Into my pocket slips a folded note, creased like labia, cached with private promise. Pea blossoms in broth. And my in petto pleasure in thinking…
Thomas Lux is always getting ready to leave for somewhere else: for the highway to his home in Waltham, Massachusetts, where he spends part of each week with his eleven-year-old daughter, Claudia; to his classes at Sarah Lawrence College, “each week a honk for Wallace Stevens” when passing through Hartford; to a writing residency at…
—a translation of Dante Alighieri’s Purgatorio, Canto XVII Remember, reader, if ever high in the mountains the fog caught you, so you could see only as moles do, looking through their skin how when the humid, dense vapors begin to grow thinner the sphere of the sun finds its way feebly…
When I was younger I loved until I disappeared. I rested my head in my hand and saw only the beloved: his unruly words, the chocolate of his eyes, each hair on his head a vine from the soul. If we were sitting at a table— the other people around us, the table itself, the…
Richard Ford, editor of The Essential Tales of Chekhov, stories translated by Constance Garnett: Ford selects twenty stories by the Russian master, including provocative lesser-known pieces by Chekhov in his youth, as well as widely anthologized classics. (Ecco)
for John Engman (1949–1996) Dear friend, I heard tonight by phone of that ghost bubble in your brain. It was not the pearl of balance one fits between lines in a carpenter’s level to make something plumb, but a blip in a membrane that burst so now your fine brain is dead— that city…
War’s hell begins with a parade, high-stepping girls, the flag’s harem, Old Glory on its leash. In a corner of the flag is a token bit of night. We round up the stars, same as the boys. A blood-red flag— blood-blue, blood-white. Reality’s standard must never touch earth. Lining the streets, cheering, we forget how…
Peacock, I have to tell you, your feathers are beautiful. Snake, your length is my life. Mighty elephant, I never forget the corner I came from. Your shell, long-living turtle, is my crown. I preach the laugh of the hyena. Dear horse, thank you for my head of hair. Thank you, sweet ox, for the…
George Garrett, Bad Man Blues, stories and essays: Subtitled A Portable George Garrett, this book of stories, anecdotes, and personal essays shows Garrett at his playful and eloquent best. (SMU)
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