Wean Yourself By Mevlâna Jalâluddîn Rumi Little by little, wean yourself.This is the gist of what I have to say. From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,move to an infant drinking milk,to a child on solid food,to a searcher after wisdom,to a hunter of more invisible game. Think how it is to have […]
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Friedrich Nietzsche“From High Mountains: Aftersong” O noon of life! O time to celebrate!O summer garden!Restlessly happy and expectant, standing,Watching all day and night, for friends I wait: Where are you, friends? Come! It is time! It’s late! The glacier’s gray adorned itself for youToday with roses,The brook seeks you, and full of longing risesThe wind,
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(Reprising this translation by Coleman Barks) Little by little, wean yourself.This is the gist of what I have to say.From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,move to an infant drinking milk,to a child on solid food,to a searcher after wisdom,to a hunter of more invisible game. Think how it is to have a
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Reality demandsthat we also mention this:Life goes on.It continues at Cannae and Borodino,at Kosovo Polje and Guernica. There’s a gas stationon a little square in Jericho,and wet painton park benches in Bila Hora.Letters fly back and forthbetween Pearl Harbor and Hastings,a moving van passesbeneath the eye of the lion at Chaeronea,and the blooming orchards near
On the heavy weight of history: *Reality Demands* by Wisława Szymborska Read More »
At YouTube or embedded below:
Dylan Thomas reads “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” Read More »
THE NAUGHTY PREPOSITION Morris Bishop I lately lost a preposition: It is, I thought, beneath my chair. And angrily I cried: “Perdition! Up from out of in under there!” Correctness is my vade mecum, And straggling phrases I abhor; And yet I wondered: “What should he come Up from out of in under for?”
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Inventors Michael Blumenthal Imagine being the first to say: surveillance … – Howard Nemerov “Imagine being the first to say: surveillance,” the mouth taking in air like a swimmer, the tongue light as an astronaut, gliding across the roof of the mouth, the eyes burning like the eyes of Fleming looking at mold
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Revisiting a good joke on pretentious literary modernism: “In a single rollicking afternoon McAuley and Stewart cooked up the collected works of Ernest Lalor Malley. Imitating the modern poets they most despised (‘not Max Harris in particular, but the whole literary fashion as we knew it from the works of Dylan Thomas, Henry Treece, and
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