The two books I think I am cooking up are: 1. Thingsomeness. Orthodox verse (villanelles, etc.) plus some less orthodox experiments in sound repetition (e.g., borzoi and for joy, echo and threshold). 2. Brass and Percussion: Pros Songs. Derived somewhat frmo classical Greek (“logaedic”) and Chinese fu models (Pound includes the…
My pale inner left arm pierced, and withdrawn; the sweat-heated pillow flattened under my neck; I lay and fingered my mental parts. A draft stirred the red curtain: a figure at the foot of the bed, observing like a brother. Not much trace of him, before our trouble. . . But I needed nothing there….
Without shadow there is no form. —Laura Gilpin What if Shadow should ever leave you? Then you would have no cover, no completion. Naked, you would have no darkness In which to renew your lost pride. Shadow follows for safe voyages. When Shadow speaks, revelation Echoes from watchful, hidden silence. Shadow is darkness caressing light….
After the Lenigrad trials, after solitary confinement most of eleven years in a Siberian gulag, he told us this story. One slice of sour black bread a day. He trimmed off the crust and saved it for the last since it was the best part. Crunchy, even a little sweet. Then he crumbled the slice…
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…
‘The Excavation', ‘History’, and ‘Meurig Dafydd to His Mistress' are three poems from what I hope will be a continuing sequence of alternative monologues. That is to say, personae poems in which a different version of myth or history is adumbrated. As Euripides once stressed, Helen did not necessarily end up in Troy!. Absurd those…
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…
Afterward, it sent me back to that passage in Chaucer about the birds that slepen al the nyght with open ye, and pretty soon that made me think of another passage, in Coleridge, about nightingales perched giddily on blossomy twigs, their eyes both bright and full. It wasn't long, though, before I thought of a…
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!…
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