They are everywhere in the wild lights past the hammering of the dawn, the colors shooting off those sounds, and she can talk to them, she says, “communicate” in the same way distant cousins lean over corpses and say something appropriate but inaccurate. Stars cinder where the jungle ends, at the furthest outskirt of the…
Mr. Larkin’s picture is on the back. Lowell poses on the front of the jacket. Mr. Larkin’s glasses distort his eyes. Lowell doesn’t seem to be wearing his. Mr. Larkin is rather nicely dressed. Lowell’s collar is open, showing chest hair. Mr. Larkin, trying quite hard to smile, asks us, “Did you like my poems…
We’ve read much, we’ve forgotten much. Afterward we unlearned all we had learned — what lead and what gold seals — forgeries, counterfeits, rub outs with a razor blade, a penknife, with gum erasers or a fountain pen; and the new script spreading on the parchment, betraying the usurper of others’ perogatives and titles, the…
The time comes when you count the names — whether Dim or flaming in the head’s dark, or whether In stone cut, time-crumbling or moss-glutted. You count the names to reconstruct yourself. But a face remembered may blur, even as you stare At a headstone. Or sometimes a face, as though from air, Will stare…
Pool tables always reminded me of paintings by Tanguy— objects connected to each other by shadows on an uncertain ground. I would stare down the shaft of light on the stick, distracted by the desire to lie down on the green moss of the table, the desire to treat the balls as gently as eggs…
He took off his watch, wound it, undressed. One movement to unfold the blanket. And he remained like that. He had forgotten something. There was something he hadn’t finished. The obstacle: perhaps that red sack on the chair, perhaps the black cap on the trunk. And automatically he turned toward the dark mirror. Inside there:…
I. The Romantics were right. Gothic buildings are best seen in ruin: sky-sprung clerestories in wild brambles — bare ruin’d quires — Romanesque arches reconstructed by the mind, tumbled-over stones to stumble on in a field of grey violets, in a place you can no longer drive to. When I walk by the Neo-Gothic duPont…
Chrysalis of shadows, we kneeled before it those long winter mornings to learn the tender fragility of shelter; match-stick tables, tiny mirrors smooth as the sea. Our hands were giants’ hands. We learned each walled-in space is like the heart: small doors leading to more doors, long hallways giving way to secret chambers; the mute,…
Hold fast to conscience and push deliberately towards self-mastery. — Seamus Heaney Upstairs in the high perch the strands of coallight discoursing over the house and cottage in County Wicklow the burial ruins temper the light of the skull shone on our heathen forebears, sunlight and periscoped floss of Catherine’s cries in the glen where…
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