Gertrude Stein & William James

The Laundress Holds Her Breath by Paola Corso

http://cavankerrypress.wordpress.com/2012/10/02/nin-andrews-interviews-paola-corso/

My Last Duke after Robert Browning

My Last Duchess

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—
E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Shakespeare Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

There Was a Boy Went Forth after Walt Whitman

Birthday Walk

Some day my dogs think they will catch one of these . . .

What a day!

Garlic mustard, an invasive species that everyone is forever pulling out of the woods . . . I think we are losing the battle.

There is so much run-off from all the new homes and paved shopping plazas upstream, trees blow over in the slightest wind, and the woods have become pretty swampy.

The skunk cabbages love all that water. As do the mosquitoes.

I love the may apples. The flowers are under the umbrella leaves, so it's easy to miss them.

And of course the swamp buttercups . . .

We won the first battle against fracking under these woods. Now they are talking about logging the park for money. Most of the wood is so soggy, I am not sure even the loggers will want the wood. I am reminded of this:

Only when the last tree has died and the last river been poisoned and the last fish been caught will we realise we cannot eat money. ~Cree Indian Proverb

Sonnets to Oreos and Dove Bars

Keeping Quiet

Keeping Quiet
by Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

This one time upon the earth,
let's not speak any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be a delicious moment,
without hurry, without locomotives,
all of us would be together
in a sudden uneasiness.

The fishermen in the cold sea
would do no harm to the whales
and the peasant gathering salt
would look at his torn hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars of gas, wars of fire,
victories without survivors,
would put on clean clothing
and would walk alongside their brothers
in the shade, without doing a thing.

What I want shouldn't be confused
with final inactivity:
life alone is what matters,
I want nothing to do with death.

If we weren't unanimous
about keeping our lives so much in motion,

if we could do nothing for once,
perhaps a great silence would
interrupt this sadness,
this never understanding ourselves
and threatening ourselves with death,
perhaps the earth is teaching us
when everything seems to be dead
and then everything is alive.

Now I will count to twelve
and you keep quiet and I'll go.

-from Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon
Translated by Stephen Mitchell

Lost in the Forest

Lost in the Forest
by Neruda

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.
Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.
Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind
as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

I love Neruda. I love the linear quality of the trees here. And the hazy green light. I get a little dizzy and distracted by too many beautiful days in a row.

Spring

“You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.”
― Pablo Neruda

Hotel Utopia by Robert Miltner

The word, thups, came to me a while ago, and I first thought of thups as something to blame the quirks of my personality on. I would just think--It's my thups that did that. One of my quirks is that I take personal credit for my friends' successes. I think of them as a reason to celebrate, a reason to have an extra slice of pie, cup of tea, wine, or whatever I wish for. (At least that's what my thups would do.)

My friend, Robert Miltner's wonderful book, Hotel Utopia, has just been selected as a finalist for the Ohioana Award. So I have been eating pie and sipping cinnamon tea.

Here's an excerpt from his poem, "Greed."

Feel it, sleek as a snake's skin, slick as a tongue, hot as a loaded gun.

Remember the red crayon your hand pinched from the box and pocketed so you wouldn't have to share it with the other kids? The desire, the gluttony for color?

Greed is lean as a skeleton's shadow and will change its shape to meet your needs.

Go on, it whispers in your ear, No one is looking.

Thups

A little moment of celebration!

Thups

three minute fiction

Reading in Cleveland Tonight

Night under Footsteps
A poetry reading tonight at 7 PM
at Mac's Backs-Books On Coventry
featuring
Nin Andrews, Eric Anderson,
Robert Miltner, Karen Schubert

The Metamorphoses

Now that's a great name for a restaurant. I wonder if it's a chain?

from Distance by Tom Clark

In


The wind in the large
trees ignorant in
nocent of all harm

blue waves of rain
flail the sea.

by Tom Clark

from Distance.


The picture is titled "Out" or "Out of the Rain."
We have so much rain here most years, I prefer not to draw it.
But at least there's a tree, and a waveless sea. Oh well.

from Farewell My Lovelies by Diann Blakely

I have this wonderful new book, Farewell My Lovelies, sent to me by Diann Blakely. It's a beautiful book. Diann is a huge Plath fan, and I love this poem of hers. But I have always felt a little guilty that I am not totally enamored of Plath or Sexton. They make me feel somewhere between sad and suicidal, sort of like the girl depicted here.

The One Fifteen to Penn Station by Kevin Carey

An interview with Kevin Carey

668

"Nature" is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse— the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

Emily Dickinson

Gerard Manley Hopkins

from Inversnaid
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Certain poems, songs, paintings, and well, beautiful days make me feel like crying. Funny to think about that. Hopkins is my favorite tear jerker.

The VIDA Count & 1914

I keep thinking about the VIDA count and wondering how different our lives are than, say, 100 years ago. So I turned to my trusty Wonder World Encyclopedia for insights.

the VIDA count

The Bluebell by Emily Bronte

The Bluebell by Emily Bronte


The Bluebell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air:
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit's care.


There is a spell in purple heath
Too wildly, sadly dear;
The violet has a fragrant breath,
But fragrance will not cheer, . . .

(Okay, let's just say she was more interesting as a novelist, but hey.)

Fracking Comics

This post has been moved here on my new blog of fracking comics.


http://fracking-comics.blogspot.com/

Emily Dickinson Comic

Blake Comic

Shakespeare Comic

from Menus for Poets and Writers

Apologies to Yeats!

Menus for Poets and Writers