Hayden Carruth, quoting 19th-century French writer Theophile Gautier: "To be of one's own time--nothing seems easier and nothing is more difficult. One can go straight through one's age without seeing it, and this is what has happened to many eminent minds."
Dawn Potter, quoting 20th-century American writer Hayden Carruth: "And I stand up high / on the wagon tongue in my whole bones to say // woe to you, watch out / you sons of bitches who would drive men and women / to the fields where they can only die."
Meanwhile, that phoebe in my yard will not stop singing, and all of a sudden I cannot remember the name of the Frost poem about the phoebes nesting on his porch, and all of a sudden I cannot decide whether or not the definition of revolutionary poetry also ought to concern the way in which one celestial object orbits around another . . . which would be a way of bringing a deity into the picture, wouldn't it?, and might also help explain why some revolutions are rather like asteroids crashing into volcanoes.
Oh, dear, oh, dear--I have so much to do, and none of it earns any money. I should go do it.
Dinner last night: Calzones filled with beef, tomatoes, dandelion greens, garlic, and my friend Amber's homemade ricotta. Orange spongecake topped with raspberry sauce.