Monday, August 31, 2015

Between Acts

Between Acts

August 31, 2015

News from nowhere

In this edition of the news from nowhere,
we find we are

of a sunflower

to know
a head bowed

is still

as far
as it goes


Sunday, August 30, 2015

Ever, Present, Grace

Ever, Present, Grace

August 30, 2015

As, Is

As, Is

August 30, 2015

Your flowers, my books

A second short poem today, for those in the mood, or need, of such.
(Granted, that may be only me.)

Your flowers, my books

Your flowers, my books. We find a place to put them.
I read yours, you hold mine, to your nose.

Your flowers, my books. From showers, to hours.
A love story, true as any, as every rose, knows.

Last leaf wanting

Last leaf wanting of a letter that you wrote,
and I, a tree, in a dream, unclothed,
beside a street, lined with honeycomb.

Saturday, August 29, 2015

Another leaf down

I remember well the day the following poem was written. (It was yesterday, in fact, if such a mad thing as yesterday exists.) The grandchildren were here and in their usual sublime uproar. As I was not needed at various times (the question of the value of my influence aside), I returned to the writing of these lines. It was very warm, cloudy, and humid out. I had twice been in a good sweat playing and working in the yard. We were all waiting and hoping for rain. We ate fresh cucumbers from the garden. We picked peppers and squash and tomatoes. All joy. Rain came last night, accompanied by lightning and thunder. Praised be. Praised be the morning, and these “ghostly-scented rooms.”

Another leaf down

Another leaf down, and how I cling to my life,
the spent grass of it, the brittle dead mass of it, the sad stink
and orderly class of it, and think it all means what it seems to the last
of it, another leaf down, my right and my wrong and my front
and my back of it, another leaf, placed flat neath my glass
of it, another, and then the dark wind, and the rush
and the curse and the joy and the blast of it,
when, how strange, and praised be,
I see another leaf — is me!

Friday, August 28, 2015

My word, my age, my cage

My word, my age, my cage,
I in my singing make a grand life of it.

My dream, my breeze, my wings,
Not one note would I strike from it.

My change, my pain, my breast,
I in my night paint light of it.

My rest, my grace, my end,
I of my death find no strife in it.

My love, my blessed, my friend,
I in glad rage take delight in it.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Lyra Elegantiarum, and other new arrivals

Lyra Elegantiarum
A collection of some of the best specimens
of vers de société and vers d'occasion in the English language
by deceased authors

Edited by Frederick Locker
New York: White, Stokes, & Allen

Ralph Waldo Emerson, John Lothrop Motley
Two Memoirs

by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company

The Cathedral

by Hugh Walpole
London: Macmillan and Co., Limited

(Signed First Edition, limited to 250 large paper copies)

(Richard Brinsley)
from new and original material, including a manuscript diary
by Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire
(Two Volumes)

by Walter Sichel
Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company

(First Edition)

Memoirs of Madame de Motteville
(Three Volumes)

With an introduction by Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve
New York: Privately Printed for Members of the Versailles Historical Society

(Edition de Luxe, limited to 250 copies.
Part of The Reign and Amours of the Bourbon Regimé.
A Brilliant Description of the Courts of Louis XIII, and XIV,
Amours, Debauchery, Intrigues, and State Secrets,
including Suppressed and Confiscated MSS.
Unexpurgated Rendition into English.)


The Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson,
(Two Volumes)

The Painting of You
by William Michaelian

Currently Reading
The Letters and Memorials of Jane Welsh Carlyle

Prepared for publication by Thomas Carlyle
Edited by J.A. Froude

This summer in review

Your father, old now, the same old pictures on the wall.
And you ask him, you ask and ask and ask and ask him.

Life, he says, he says, life, is one grand clue.
His eyes, his eyes, his eyes then close.

Brown grasses, grasses, grasses.
A sky that’s almost blue.

And you ask him, ask and ask and ask and ask him.
Given, he says, to you.

Grasses, brown, brown, brown, brown, brown grasses.
True, as each and every fragment passes.

How hang the leaves, once dancing.
How soft, the heart’s own hue.

And you ask and ask and ask and ask him.
Am I your father now?

Your lips, your lips don’t move.
Comes blessed his answer, who, who, who, are you?

Comes blessed his smile, too.
And comes to rest, this summer in review.

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Garden time

Is this my life? this sunrise?
this fresh-crisp jalapeño stinging my lips?
my heaven? my yes? my bliss?

(I return her kiss)

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Battered library copies, 1883

The writing in these books is priceless.

The thing he then was

“What the writer did actually mean,
the thing he then thought of, the thing he then was.”




by Frederick Lawton

Spiritual Adventures
by Arthur Symons

The Life and Letters of Sir Edmund Gosse
by Evan Charteris

The Letters of Algernon Charles Swinburne
edited by Sir Edmund Gosse and Thomas Wise

A Study of Shakespeare
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Currently Reading

The Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson,
1834-1872, Volume I