General Slaughter declared that on the night after the terrific repulse of Burnside’s army at Fredericksburg, Stonewall Jackson had made the following suggestion: — “I am of the opinion that we ought to attack the enemy at once; And in order to avoid the confusion and mistakes so common in a night attack, I recommend…
They leave from positions of strength, like all baroque civilizations; leave the statues we cannot imagine moving for heaviness caught in the skirts. . . We watch their gestures grow finer and more nervous in the widening air. They are the best judges of wine; talk always at the glittering edges of things, the terrible…
for Helen Corsa All that is lost is the body and the object of desire. Approaching composition, the laureate said and resaid his name like the clack of British Railways: Tennyson, Tennyson-Tennyson, murmuring of innumerable be‘s—mere being, humiliating history. Heinreich Schliemann, final hero of Troy, once saw as a child a tombstone: “Here Lies Heinreich…
are used to mount hinges on doors alongside the melon ball scoop hard-boiled egg slicer jodhpurs, corn-skewers tuning fork, grapefruit knife kaopectate nut pick they wait for their single summons practising saying “coming!” as a matter of fact, consider grinding stones washboards napkin rings who may never again be called those with particular adaptations Latin…
Here there is violence: she waits on simple blue not innocent, not unaware, sprawled, random, nude. The ambiguities of her air all gathered in and pent emerge as rose and scarlet. Rage takes its attitude.
My daughter tells me her dream, where she saw The Times on the porch in the morning and knew from the page-sized black of the headlines—WAR— DECLARES WAR—that now it was over, and wept in her dream to think that she’d never have her years, friends, a marriage night, shifting the dreck of everyday life….
Our conversation began by wandering into the visual arts. Knowing Mark Strand had painted, and had come to Iowa from the M.F.A. program at Yale, I asked if he kept up with the work of contemporary art. S: I follow the work of a few friends and sometimes write art catalogs or brochures, but I…
Ten years older in an hour— I see your face smile, your mouth is stepped on without bruising. You are very frightened by the ward, your companions were chosen for age; you are the youngest and sham-flirt with the nurse— your chief thought is scheming the elaborate surprise of your escape. Being old in good…
I love sweets,— heaven would be dying on a bed of vanilla ice cream . . . But my true self is thin, all profile and effortless gestures, the sort of blond elegant girl whose body is the image of her soul. —My doctors tell me I must give up this ideal;…
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