Showing posts from March, 2010



Words David Foster Wallace Circled in the Dictionary:


















What ?

Who was it turned my thought to this ?

Wind. Stone. Limb. Gate.

Issa. Yeats. Em. Blake.

You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year
of conversation.

Last night we had a good fifteen minutes or so of joy
holding ...a poem on the tips of our thumbnails.

- R Nemo Hill

A Love Song

-- For Nemo and Julian

May we follow in

our ignorance

and wakenings

and little mammal



perfect pitch,
our own erratic



the teeming sea,

the sailing boy,
and fifteen

thousand moons

for every minute

of every joy.

Paterson Again

We were strolling along the street, and passed a couple of sleepy
undergraduates. Suddenly my companion interjected -- so then I
shot him in the face -- terrible fucking mess, brains allup the walls ...
for no reason other than to bring a little color into the lives of his
eavesdroppers. He then resumed our conversation on Sondheim.

More Don Paterson

All true poems are fugitive, being embarrassed by their human source.

Socrates Cafe

The other day I saw in the garden the first bright green crocus pushing the winter aside, unabashed in its gladness. Not being a post-podern thing, the crocus has no use for irony, no love of grumbling.

Said the poet from Nepal, ‘everybody I meet in America has a car and a job
and a big television, and they all say they are broke'.

By the lake, one dead frog, (mid leap ?) one early bumble bee, a noisy clan of Canada geese, a constellation of starlings.

At the Socrates gathering this month, the subject was Power. Around the circle: a Wiccan, a Christian, a Buddhist, a couple of Neitzscheans, a brilliant comic stoic, an astrophysicist, an English teacher, a metaphysician, and a plumber.

He had the question hushed us all, until we answered, answered, answered.
I ran into Isosceles. He had a great idea for a new triangle ...

Woody Allen
Wouldn't it be wonderful to start our children's spiritual
education at the age of six with the honest opener: Children --
I'm afraid no one has the first clue why we're here.

Don Paterson

Word of the Day: Biophilia

Each year more people visit zoos than attend all sporting events
Spring begins
and who could deny

hocus pocus,

pink sky,
ice floe, wild
crocus ...

Gary Snyder

Not all those who pass
before the Great Mother's Chair
get past with only a stare.
Some she looks at their hands
to see what kind of savages they were.
One of the nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.

- Pavarotti

Mixed Media Collage

I dream of a culture where it is thought a crime to be dull.

- Roethke

We hardly know you.
Which, like coyote
nose, is the point

of all coyote glory and holy
revelation. In our backyard
coyote ignores the steady, pale
climb of the moon.

Old hat. Done that.

Instead he picks his fights with Thor,
the god who dares wrangle back,
bringing Coyote, minor god,

ferocious little
a scrap
of coyote

dignity, and several existential moans
closer to home.

(first appeared in Smartish Pace)

To conceive an idea is novel, to execute it servile.

- Da Vinci

Pick an ohm, any ohm

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labor by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

Dylan Thomas.

The Optic Nerve

On Lori's porch are desert ferns,
a bowl of golden clementines,
two broken urns, an overturned
terra cotta pot, a cot,

an overflowing litter box,
a fallen chime, assorted pairs
of winter boots and flip flops,
a cluster of shattered light bulbs,

some broken phones, a bread machine,
a rusty stove, some metal pipe,
a leaning stack of magazines,
a couple gutted box springs,

and just beyond the climbing vine,
the neighbors’ effing clothesline.

(first published in Unsplendid)