Bishop Comic and Best American Poetry Blog Post: On Becoming a Prick

I chose this comic because it relates to my BAP post "On Becoming a Prick."
You can see it here:

ONE ART

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.

WCW Comic

RAIN

As the rain falls 
so does 
           your love 

bathe every 
                  open 
object of the world-- 

In houses 
the priceless dry 
                         rooms 

of illicit love 
where we live 
hear the wash of the 
                                rain-- 

There 
          paintings 
and fine 
             metalware 
woven stuffs-- 
all the whorishness 
of our 
           delight 
sees 
from its window 

the spring wash 
of your love 
                      the falling 
rain-- 

The trees 
are become 
beasts fresh-risen 
from the sea-- 
water 

trickles 
from the crevices of 
their hides-- 

So my life is spent 
                              to keep out love 
with which 
she rains upon 

                         the world 

of spring 

                    drips 

so spreads 

                     the words 

far apart to let in 

                           her love 

And running in between 

the drops 

                   the rain 

is a kind physician 

                              the rain 
of her thoughts over 

the ocean 
                     every 

where 

           walking with 
invisible swift feet 
over 

         the helpless 
                            waves-- 

Unworldly love 
that has no hope 
                            of the world 

                            and that 
cannot change the world 
to its delight-- 

           The rain 
falls upon the earth 
and grass and flowers 

come 
          perfectly 

into form from its 
                           liquid 

clearness 

                But love is 
unworldly 

                and nothing 
comes of it but love 

following 
and falling endlessly 
from 
          her thoughts

Poe Comic

Remembering David Feitler

My friend, David Feitler, died Friday night at home with his family in Shaker Heights.  Although he had cancer for many years, and I knew he would die soon, I am still having trouble processing the fact that he is gone.  He was family to us.  He and his beautiful wife, Zanna, always felt/feel more like siblings than friends.  And both have more guts, enthusiasm, and imagination than anyone I can think of off-hand.   A chemist with an MIT background, David loved science, travel, nature, the arts, books, and friends.  He composed music, played the piano, folk danced, and best of all, laughed loudly and often.  He loved participating in as well as appreciating art.  He and Zanna faithfully sat through many of my poetry readings.  One night when I was visiting, he began composing poetry.  By morning he had four poems to show me, and he said he could feel more in his mind.  He loved ballet, and in his fifties took lessons from the Cleveland Ballet.  I can't think of many other tall middle-aged men who would willingly squeeze themselves into ballet slippers and tights and try to learn how to plie.  He also loved photography and had some amazing photographs--I especially love his photographs of birds.  He loved to watch the blue herons from his dining room window.   Somehow he reminded me of a heron, tall and regal, his feet in the mud, his head high above the water--as if he were thinking about things, seeing more than I ever see.

Amy Lowell, "A Decade"

When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like the morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all, for I know your savor;
But I am completely nourished.

Sonnet 96

Caryl Pagel

Caryl Pagel came to Macs to read at the October workshop, and she was phenomenal!  She read from her book, TWICE TOLD, and she had us all riveted.  Now I keep thinking of writing poems in the manner of Caryl Pagel.  The prompt for the November workshop at Mac's is to do just that.

(Apologies to Caryl.  This drawing does not do her justice.)

My Next Book

I am almost finished with the galleys of my next book, WHY GOD IS A WOMAN, which should be out from BOA early next year.   I feel slightly paralyzed, afraid to celebrate  the book yet, afraid to move on to the next one.
I feel like I'm in Maine, sitting on my favorite rock, thinking about whether or not I want to get into that cold water again.

Yeats Comic