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…
In my most recent book, City Life, I used interlocking dramatic monologues to develop a plot and subplot. Finishing it gave me the impetus to experiment with shaping a musical structure out of inter- locking sequences, each sequence resonating with the others. To the Storm's End is one of the sequences I'm working on in…
My friend April Fallon tells me that blood on the exterior of the brain is cooler than that in the interior and that it's in the cooler blood that dreams reside. What do you think? Do you love the head as much as I do? That calcareous shell, the stoniest part of the body. And…
Il grande tetto où picoraient des focs è un'immagine idillica del mare. Oggi la linea dell'orizzonte è scura e la proda ribolle come una pentola. Quando di qui passarono le grandi locomotive, Bellerofonte, Orione i loro nomi, tutte le forme erano liquescenti per sovrappiù di giovinezza e il vento più violento era ancora una carezza….
Under the lamplight of a Paris hotel, You read Time on “The Decline of America” While your wife watches the evening news, hoping for comprehension. You remember when you were very poor And made less money than you'll spend on this vacation. You vowed then not to romanticize that time, But your pockets stuffed with…
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