I don't stay in town long. I drive out to Race Point— bright stunt kites, diving and sailing in the stiff north wind, and people walking the beach. The sea's sunny and dark. I drive on, down to Herring Cove, park, and walk the beach myself. A man and woman are fishing. “What do you…
One Intimations Falling Maybe children wake to a love affair every morning or so, maybe that's why, if they are given any chance, they seem to like the world so much. Maybe falling for the world is a thing that happens to them all the time. I hope so, I hope it is purely commonplace….
to Peter Vansittart The last war-horse slaughtered and eaten long ago. Not a rat, not a crow-crumb left; the polluted water scarce; the vile flies settling on the famous enlarged eyes of skeleton children. Tonight the moon's open-mouthed. I must surrender in the morning. But those cipher tribes out there, those Golden Hordes, those shit!…
This isn't a story I want to tell, or need to. I've shoveled the night's hard snowfall from the drive and heaped it, mailbox-high, for the neighbor kids to stomp over. I've fed the squirrels and put out black sunflower and wild weed seed for the birds— the female cardinal rose and dusky and black…
I must train myself to no longer exist but as a stone lifted and thrown to wherever I land, a new place, a new odor to it and new sound and action surrounding me, all this without the thought of loss, despair, or hope, a preparation for loss. Such a life would be god's, if…
No word I huffed when Stradling urged the squire to throw my eulogy on the fire. The fiddlers laughed. I, snow-silent, proud, did not melt. But I'm spitless now, my pearl, my buttercup, my bread-fruit. I rattle their silver in my pocket. I have other stanzas for harp and lute, other gullible lords to flatter….
Just finished reading Matthews’ Blues If You Want. And Carruth's essay on Thoreau, where he gives a good, swift kick to all that rich-boy mystical-Utopian stuff. Yesterday, I took a break, and in the 90-degree afternoon heat, with a good wind blowing and a cold Miller's sweating on a stump, sawed down the two small…
I live with my contradictions intact, seeking transcendence but loving bread. I shrug at both and from behind the summer screen I look out upon the dark, knowing death as one form of transcendence, but so is life.
The shift from Eugenio Montale's first three books—high modernist poetry, lyrically intense, elaborately wrought, musically intricate, elliptical—to his last four (Satura, the two Diaries of 1971 and 1972, and the Quaderno di quattro anni) for the translator poses obvious problems, above all of tone and continuity. The late poetry, for instance, is no less dense…
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