Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
"No one is quite the same after a loud bang as before it."
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Sixteen years ago today I spent several unpleasant hours in the hospital and returned home the following morning with a very small boy who looked like Edward G. Robinson. Shortly thereafter, our well went dry, and the dog got sprayed by a skunk. A few months later we moved across town to our present house, and the boy became attached to a stuffed pig. Before long he learned to talk. Some of his first words were "Birdfinch," "Birdhatch," "Bucket loader," and "Right, Mom?"At age 2 he met his best friend, and they spent many happy hours together riding a wooden giraffe on wheels. (Mine was the bossy blond kid on the left.) Soon he began to construct forts from baling twine, pine boughs, and duct tape; and by second grade he had attempted to glue an annoying kid to a desk chair.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
"Woman who left kids in hot car while shoplifting is still in jail"
"Police: Man forces ex-wife to swallow wedding ring"
Monday, July 26, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
"O me! my heart, my rising heart! but down!"
Monday, July 19, 2010
from The PreludeWilliam Wordsworth
Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows
Like harmony in music; there is a dark
Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles
Discordant elements, makes them cling together
In one society. How strange that all
The terrors, pains, and early miseries,
Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused
Within my mind, should e’er have borne a part,
And that a needful part, in making up
The calm existence that is mine when IAm worthy of myself!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
ShadowsMilly JourdainAlong the winding lane I often walkTouching the trees--letting the grasses slipBetween my fingers. Seeing bluebells shineAmong the fading primroses. BeyondThe open fields sweet with the smell of springLook thro' the gate. And further far awayThe fields and hedges lose themselves in mistAnd yet it's all a dream. Each long day bringsThe perfect images of vanished things.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
She I kill'd? I did so, but thou strik'st meSorely, to say I did. It is as bitterUpon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good, now,Say so but seldom.
You might have spoken a thousand things that wouldHave done the time more benefit, and grac'dYour kindness better.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Poem 1196Emily DickinsonTo make Routine a StimulusRemember it can cease--Capacity to TerminateIs a Specific Grace--Of Retrospect the ArrowThat power to repairDeparted with the TormentBecome, alas, more fair--
Thursday, July 8, 2010
DonnafugataAugust, 1860[from The Leopard by Prince Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa (translated by Archibald Colquhoun)]"The trees! The trees!"This shout from the leading carriage eddied back along the following four, almost invisible in clouds of white dust; and at every window perspiring faces expressed tired gratification.The trees were only three, in truth, and eucalyptus at that, scruffiest of Mother Nature's children. But they were also the first seen by the Salina family since leaving Bisacquino at six that morning. It was now eleven, and for the last five hours all they had set eyes on were bare hillsides flaming yellow under the sun. Trots over level ground had alternated briefly with long slow trudges uphill and then careful shuffles down; both trudge and trot merging, anyway, into the constant jingle of harness bells, imperceptible now to the dazed senses except as sound equivalent of the blazing landscape. They had passed through crazed-looking villages washed in palest blue; crossed dry beds of torrents over fantastic bridges; skirted sheer precipices which no sage and broom could temper. Never a tree, never a drop of water; just sun and dust. Inside the carriages, tight shut against that sun and dust, the temperature must have been well over 120 degrees. Those desiccated trees yearning away under bleached sky bore many a message; that they were now within a couple of hours from their journey's end; that they were entering the family estates; that they could lunch, and perhaps even wash their faces in the verminous water of the well.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
On the morning I left
my country, sunlight
thrust through the clouds
the way it does after a raw
autumn rain, sky stippled
with blue like a young mackerel,
leaf puddles blinking silver,
sweet western wind gusting
fresh as paint, and a flock
of giddy hens rushing pell-mell
into the mud; and I knelt
in the sodden grass and gathered
my acres close, like starched
skirts; I shook out the golden
tamaracks, and a scuffle of jays
tumbled into my spread apron;
I tucked a weary child into each coat
pocket, wrapped the quiet
garden neat as a shroud
round my lover’s warm heart,
cut the sun from its moorings
and hung it, burnished and fierce,
over my shield arm—a ponderous
weight to ferry so far across the waste—
though long nights ahead, I’ll bless
its brave and crazy fire.
[from How the Crimes Happened (CavanKerry Press, 2010)]