I suppose it started with the terrible dream about airlines. When I tried to write about it the typewriter chewed through the paper, edged away from me across the table, and proceeded to issue terse, impertinent messages. It was like the beginning of Attack of the Mushroom People, when a strange fungus-like growth spelled disaster…
We were trudging along the dry road toward the dunes and I was telling Octavio Paz about DeWitt Henry's issue of Ploughshares (2/2) devoted to realist fiction. "Realist fiction!" His eyebrows arched in mock surprise. "This is a logical contradiction, no?" * * * If Ploughshares has, as we like to hope, come of age, it…
Who was Athena’s pet— Be glad you’re dead. That you should see the shadow fleshen! The shade caught in the arachnid net— This dust was Randall and they say That almost on his lucky day He found his only luck to be The dark concrete of 53 I was Athena’s pet. . . . Send…
For me it might be fine to wake up and weed the garden play tennis or lift a chair over my head but what about the man who moves pianos for a living or the woman who at last gives birth to one too many children what does she think of breakfast brought to her…
EDITORIAL BOARD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor David Gullette Associate Editors Norman Klein Lloyd Schwartz George Starbuck Contributing Editors Fanny Howe Robert Pinsky James Randall Jane Shore Ellen Wilbur CONTRIBUTORS JONATHAN AARON has had poems in The New Yorker, American Review, Esquire, Kayak, etc. He teaches at Williams and will enjoy an Amy…
(The Ribbon to Norwood, January 5, 1971) Will all be well? To outfly the snow. Waking in the dark . . . . He kneels at the hearth, Radiates the ceiling . . . . No. Older than that. Old. My father lights no fires; I expect no hearth. But today I go, My day…
Time “at a premium as usual” and me drunk in the garden the birds bearing their perfected frames down the creekbed walking as straight as I can I only intersect myself Even the gardeners are drunk today their rakes fly out of their hands they hide their bottle in the hedge their pile of petals…
CHARLES and XENIA are discussing them At her place. Interrupted solitaire, Fern, teapot, humdrum harmonies from where Blinks a green cat’s-eye, the old FM. XENIA: Now no. But when I am child my parents Are receiving them. Emigrés I think very old, Distinguished. Spectacles with rims of gold. Clothes stained by acid of expérience. Forever…
In the dark, I picked up a nail to write you a letter on a piece of wood. The iron point of midnight will failed me, I couldn’t send it. I am brave like Joan of Arc in dreams, but things shrink back into place when I awake. There are some tired flowers here with…
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