Notice that the dogs are wearing their winter coats! They're always hoping to catch one of those gulls!
SWIM RI: Masters
11 minutes ago
|On June 23, BOA will host its 7th annual Poetry Is Jazz event in Rochester, held in collaboration with the Rochester Contemporary Art Center (RoCo), during the Rochester International Jazz Festival. We hope you will join us for this FREE event , as we celebrate poetry, jazz, and art. Stop by, have a drink, and say hello!|
Tuesday, June 23, 6:00-8:00PM
Rochester Contemporary Art Center
137 East Avenue
Rochester, New York
A special thank you goes out to our sponsor, Lavin, O'Neil, Cedrone, and DiSipio: Attorneys at Law, for their generous support of this event!
Featuring BOA poet Nin AndrewsPoetry reading | Book signingNin Andrews will read from her new book Why God Is a Woman, released in May 2015, and from her previous BOA title, Sleeping with Houdini.
Set on a magical island where women rule and men are the second sex, Why God Is a Woman is the story of a boy who, exiled from the island because he could not abide by its sexist laws, looks back with both nostalgia and bitterness and wonders: Why does God have to be a woman? Celebrated prose poet Nin Andrews creates a world both fantastic and familiar in which gender roles are turned upside-down, and where all myths, logic, and institutions support the dominance of women.
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution’s power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would.
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.