Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
The cold winter's night was almost black. It was like looking into the hollow of a dark-blue stone.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to light . . . it becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love, battle, and jealousy among the prime themes of literature. Novels, one would have thought, would have been devoted to influenza; epic poems to typhoid; odes to pneumonia, lyrics to toothache. But no; . . . literature does its best to maintain that its concern is with the mind; that the body is a sheet of plain glass through which the soul looks straight and clear.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
from The White Bear, a long narrative poem linked to the Scandinavian fairy tale "East of the Sun and West of the Moon." Portions of the poem have appeared in the Green Mountains Review.
She has forgotten the room, forgotten the firelight, forgotten
the cool ironed sham beneath her cheek,
forgotten the shadows under the bed, forgotten the wind at the window,
the stars burning, an owl snatching a wayward rabbit,
the rabbit’s shriek; she has forgotten her mother, her father,
her cottage under moonlight; forgotten the rain,
forgotten the brook that wept like a river.
Only now only now only now.
For dreaming and the act of love are mirrors;
and tonight the girl knows also; but where is her breath,
where is the tender shivering flesh below the ridge of her shoulder?
Where? For she has lost herself, she has lost the white bear,
who is not a bear, but what has he become?
What has she become? Both have cast off their skins, both
grown larger than giants, and each new and solitary cell
undergoes its ruthless joy. Who is the bear, who the woman;
who the air, who the fire; who the knife,
who the wound? How terrible they are;
how near to hate and dreaming is love,
its fury of nail and claw; and how time
narrows and slows, till now there is only
yes and no and yes.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
How is it possible that a Man almost 50 Years of Age, who has not lost any of his life since he was five years old without incessant labour & study, how is it possible that such a one with ordinary common sense can be inferior to a boy of twenty, who scarcely has taken or deigns to take a pencil in hand, but who rides about the Parks or Saunters about the Playhouses, who Eats & drinks for business not for need, how is it possible that such a fop can be superior to the studious lover of Art can scarcely be imagind. Yet such is somewhat like my fate & such it is likely to remain. Yet I laugh & sing, for if on Earth neglected I am in heaven a Prince among Princes, & even on Earth beloved by the Good as a Good Man; this I should be contented with, but a[t] certain periods a blaze of reputation arises round me in which I am considerd as one distinguishd by some mental perfection, but the flame soon dies again & I am left stupefied and astonish'd. O that I could live as others do in a regular succession of Employment.
Week before last I went to Wesleyan and read "A Good Man is Hard to Find." After it I went to one of the classes where I was asked questions. There were a couple of young teachers there, and one of them, an earnest type, started asking the questions. "Miss O'Connor," he said, "why is The Misfit's hat black?" I said most countrymen in Georgia wore black hats. Then he said, "Miss O'Connor, The Misfit represents Christ, does he not?" "He does not," I said. He looked crushed. "Well, Miss O'Connor," he said, "what is the significance of The Misfit's hat?" I said it was to cover his head, and after that he left me alone.
I guess I should write something just for the hell of it so I'll have something to read later on.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Any time spent with your child is partly a damn sad time, the sadness of life a-going, bright, vivid, each time a last. A loss. A glimpse into what could've been. It can be corrupting.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Slowly wheeling, like the rays of a searchlight, the days, the weeks, the years passed one after another across the sky.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Violin LessonDawn PotterWhen you are eighteen,Mr. Kowalski straddles the piano benchyou will marry my sonin this shrouded house under rain.and we will drink cognac togetherCars hiss by on the street.and you will win the competitions,I did not practice the Sevcik, Hrimaly, or Dont,so you must forget this laziness.but fingered silent thirds like nightmares.Your work is terrible.The violins on the piano tremble. The roomYou shame yourself.smells of sad people, counting the minutes till freedom,How can we continuewasting our talent on sleep and tears.if you do not love your work?[from Boy Land & Other Poems (Deerbrook Editions, 2004)]Violin RecitalDawn PotterHumming box of echoes, satinframe twitching under the child's grasplike a docile rabbit,quivering, alive; tautsilver purling call-and-response,torqued gut and ebony potentas storm, moresecret than air,primed innocence, partingnaked lips for the coloraturaoath dragged forthbow and scrape, a terribleroar toward glory--reckless, infant--weltering under a high-wire apogee, gypsy fingerscrowding the steep,hunger quaking, prowling through floorboards,knees, through nervous hips,hands slick with sweat, pricked earcanny as a bitten fox.[from How the Crimes Happened (CavanKerry Press, 2010)]
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
The night winds reachlike the blind breath of the worldin a rhythm without mind, gusting and beatingas if to destroy us, battering our povertyand all the land's flat and cold and darkunder iron snow
Thursday, February 10, 2011
One of the most common and saddest spectacles is that of a person of really fine sensibility and acute psychological perception trying to write fiction by using these qualities alone. This type of writer will put down one intensely emotional or keenly perceptive sentence after the other, and the result will be complete dullness. The fact is that the materials of the fiction writer are the humblest. Fiction is about everything human and we are made out of dust, and if you scorn getting yourself dusty, then you shouldn't try to write fiction. It's not a grand enough job for you.
My true love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss:There never was a better bargain driv'n.His heart in me, keeps me and him in one,My heart in him, his thoughts and senses guides.He loves my heart, for once it was his own:I cherish his, because in me it bides.His heart his wound received from my sight;My heart was wounded, with his wounded heart,For as from me on him his hurt did light,So still methought in me his hurt did smart;Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
My true love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss:There never was a better bargain driv'n.His heart in me, keeps me and him in one,My heart in him, his thoughts and senses guides.He loves my heart, for once it was his own:I cherish his, because in me it bides.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
My true love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss:There never was a better bargain driv'n.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
What wool my sheep shall bear, while thus they live,In you it is, you must the judgment give.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The idea of being a writer attracts a good many shiftless people, those who are merely burdened by poetic feelings or afflicted with sensibility.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
[Houdini] had almost no schooling, and although he was to write a great deal--books on magic, biography, autobiography, short stories, screenplays, articles and books on Spiritualism, and thousands of letters--he never mastered spelling or punctuation, or editorial restraint.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The New-Englanders are a People of God settled in those, which were once the Devil's Territories; and it may easily supposed that the Devil was exceedingly disturbed, when he perceived such a People here accomplishing the Promise of old made unto our Blessed Jesus, That He should have the Utmost parts of the Earth for his Possession.