* 1. First thing to know is, I’d never seen a cello until then, and haven’t since. I didn’t know what to call it. Someone named it cello for me. One day this man appears with it. It was Tiúk. He’d been known to live under rocks. Every so often he arrived with a wood…
It is cold this evening. One of the first cold evenings of autumn. I have your shirt over my own. I am not hungry. I am starving. And I look for the laws of all this. I write down a new name, Cyrene, beloved of Apollo. To look up. To learn about it before spring….
This part of the country is definitely a corner pocket when it comes to word music. For instance although he’s got a tin ear over there under the palm trees and Nazi architecture of Cal Tech the only poet/editor in SoCal who can fit an entire cantaloupe in his mouth without opening his lips is…
A month gone by, and days like clouds form above the sea. A man I met smiled at me from a chair, took my hand, talked to me simply. When I turn in the warm bed windowpanes, rain light, and the garden whiten under the moon. Memory colors me like a flush. I lie on…
the Nigerian gods were cooks. They made the babies for the people, each baby carefully shaped, slant of the eyes tone of voice the way the legs would leap and climb sparse hills. Each time the gods cooked a batch of babies enemy gods blew up a storm whipping the treetops where the babies cradled…
Since his sharp sight has taught you To think your own thoughts and to see What cramped horizons my arms brought you, Turn then and go free, Unlimited, your own Forever. Let your vision be In your own interests; you’ve outgrown All need for tyranny. May his clear views save you From those shrewd, undermining…
I remember Yiannoula bringing huge balls of fresh cheese to our house, cheeses larger than soccerballs. They were wrapped in cloth, and fat drops of milk would stain the flagstones as she carried them across the courtyard to where my grandfather waited, near the door of the storeroom. Half of it would be sliced and…
“More delicate than the historians’ are the map- makers’ colors.” —Elizabeth Bishop “We were crazy, me and Red, Used to take rifles to the fields and shoot at animals, Squirrels and rabbits mostly. My old mother was sure we’d kill somebody — “My father was the only doctor In the whole place, for hundreds of…
That winking, glimmering like the wings of starlings in their dark flock, wheeling into the last light, into the light breeze; that shivering like lake ripples, like sequins on a black lace veil that half reveals some face which, loveliest, lies beneath; that soft shade we once sat to read in afternoons, and…
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