If you check this web site from time to time for reasons other than spamming, you will know it has been a while since I posted something new. In fact, if you check it regularly we are probably related. I haven't dropped off the face of the earth recently, but my life is taking some new directions.
I recently enrolled in a Creative Writing class. In addition to learning how to write better, it exposes me to some really good writers I haven't experienced before. Since I am spending quite a bit of time with this, I think it only fair to share the exceptional finds I make. I will sprinkle in some stuff new to me and maybe some old favorites. Don't read anything special into why I choose what I do. It just catches my eye or ear. There is no message from me other than I like the work.
One other note. Unlike all the other entries on this blog, I am going to work from top to bottom. The newer stuff will be added at the end, so you might have to remember where you were. Sorry to make you work so hard...
I will try to be a little more punctual about posting, but no promises. Let me know what you think of this!
Gevorg Emin
The Question Mark
Poor thing. Poor crippled measure
of punctuation. Who would know,
who could imagine you used to be
an exclamation point?
What force bent you over?
Age, time and the vices
of this century?
Did you not once evoke,
call out and stress?
But you got weary of it all,
got wise, and turned like this.
Edward Arlington Robinson
Amaryllis
ONCE, when I wandered in the woods alone,
An old man tottered up to me and said,
“Come, friend, and see the grave that I have made
For Amaryllis.” There was in the tone
Of his complaint such quaver and such moan
That I took pity on him and obeyed,
And long stood looking where his hands had laid
An ancient woman, shrunk to skin and bone.
Far out beyond the forest I could hear
The calling of loud progress, and the bold
Incessant scream of commerce ringing clear;
But though the trumpets of the world were glad,
It made me lonely and it made me sad
To think that Amaryllis had grown old.
James Tate
Consolations After an Affair
My plants are whispering to one another:
they are planning a little party
later on in the week about watering time.
I have quilts on beds and walls
that think it is still the 19th century.
They know nothing of automobiles and jet planes.
For them a wheat field in January
is their mother and enough.
I've discovered that I don't need
a retirement plan, a plan to succeed.
A snow leopard sleeps beside me
like a slow, warm breeze.
And I can hear the inner birds singing
alone in this house I love.
A friend showed me this many years ago. I thought it was absolutely meaningless but somehow still grabbed my attention. I read it over and over until it framed a picture in my mind of the event. Now the author is one of my favorites. Wallace Stevens sold insurance for a living. He was a genius on the side. That truly makes him a man for our times...
Wallace Stevens
The Emperor of Ice-Cream
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Anonymous (c. 1508)
Westron Wynde
Westron wynde when wyll thow blow
the smalle rayne downe can rayne
Chryst yf my love wer in my armys
and I yn my bed agayne
John Updike
Player Piano
My stick fingers click with a snicker
And, chuckling, they knuckle the keys;
Light-footed, my steel feelers flicker
And pluck from these keys melodies.
My paper can caper; abandon
Is broadcast by dint of my din,
And no man or band has a hand in
The tones I turn on from within.
At times I'm a jumble of rumbles,
At others I'm light like the moon,
But never my numb plunker fumbles,
Misstrums me, or tires a new tune.
In the early 1980s, I went to a poetry recital at Pittsburg State University. I had never been to a poetry recital before, and we laughed about going to hear 'the poem reciter'. The poet was William Stafford, and it turned out to be a grand opportunity. I remember Stafford as a small man. He read his work aloud to our small group. In some instances he explained the origin of the work, and in others let the work stand as written. Afterward he patiently shook hands and answered questions. I had no idea that this piece, in particular, would stay in my mind decades later.
William Stafford
Traveling Through The Dark
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason--
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all--my only swerving--,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
Rod Taylor
Dakota: October 1822 Hunkpapa Warrior
New air has come around us.
It is cold enough to make us know we are different
from the things we touch. Before dark, we ride
along the high places or go deep in the long
grass at the edge of our people
and watch for enemies.
We are the strongest tribe of the Sioux. Buffalo
are plentiful, our women beautiful. Life
is good.
What bad thing can be done against us?
Procrastination
Once upon and then no more
I practiced by the sea,
What once the Great Khan held alone
Again had come to be.
I sat in silence hearing one
When seabirds came to me
They flocked upon my creaking joints
And loudly chasten three.
For salt and stone and water’s tide
Bear all the world and time,
While from this foolish little throne
I heard a blackbird rhyme.
As the world proclaims anew
The birthing of a day
My gaze fell out on empty cups
With nothing more to say.
Years ago, a very strange person taught me this exerpt from the Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll. I cannot call that person a friend, but I like the poem. I loved the music of the piece, and the grand wisdom promised in the opening lines. It paints an exotic picture immediately. Like the person that introduced me to these lines, the overall poem is extremely dark in character under closer scrutiny. It reminds me that surface impressions can hide what lies beneath. I don't want to spoil it for you, but I invite you to read the work start to finish. I still love the sound of it and find it floating around in my head from time to time, but now perhaps with a touch of sinister irony just behind.
Lewis Carroll
from The Walrus and the Carpenter
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."