Monday, April 30, 2018

GLADE ~








Glade


                                           for SEA




the woodcutter

never gets it —



while he sleeps

firewood seasons







Where the tall hemlock

crashed down in the woods

taking away its shade



now a sunshine

with only benevolence

runs along its spine








work clothes off

back into a skirt

you show me

at supper where

the log today

bruised your shin








right behind

and nearly under 

the truck we spread

the Mexican blanket

to take a nap be-

tween cutting wood

because the sunshine is there








the apple today

isn’t as tasty as

the apple yesterday

you packed for me

at lunch when we 

break from wood-

cutting and the two

chocolate kisses you

never forget to bring








the same time

we are cutting

all this wood



the tomatoes

back at home

are ripening







the ash trees by the truck

are so willowy and tall I

hate to cut them down

to dry that way through

fall, winter, spring and I

will visit them again by

summer with my saw

meaning business







I can’t help but stop

to rest and sink my

woodsmear hands

while hugging you

down inside your

overalls and now

your smile at my

touch of the 

silkiest things








without looking —

too busy with axe

chain saw, wooded ground tumble

we hear hawk, bluejay, sparrow, owl

chickadee & a few things unknown








It’s a glade we rough out from

blowndown oak and maple trees



woodcut and hand-split circle

of sunshine and scrabble



we could almost call it home








before we hiked in for a look

then drove in getting serious

with chain saw and tools



everything was just fine

(and rotting)








I said

we could make love

right on the tailgate



33 years

somehow never done



she said she would

but in the deepest green woods

someone could be watching







I can split red oak on the run

rock maple with three whacks

I dream about it now




—————————————
BOB ARNOLD
I'm In Love With You
Who Is In Love With Me
Longhouse 2012


 



Saturday, April 28, 2018

Friday, April 27, 2018

JAIME BROCKETT ~






Jerry Jeff Walker wrote the song
but I always liked Brockett's version
off his debut album in 1968
'Remember the Wind and the Rain'

LOUISE GLUCK ~









Thursday, April 26, 2018

JO NESBØ ~







Yes, it's a formulaic crime novel,
but there are some surprises,
and at least one head rolls


Knopf 2015





WHEN SPRING COMES. . . ~




D O U G L A S      C R A S E





When Spring Comes First
To West 21st Street


The day we discovered the world
Was the day it had also been there all the time,
Furious to be documented in the seasons which grow on us
So unnoticeably. At Montauk the lighthouse again
Is closer to the sea and above Dyckman Street
The nets have been spread to catch the running shad,
Fewer though not less vigorous than they used to be.
In the bookstores even the lichens are said
To be in danger now (the lichens, think of that)
But in the city we've got the sparrows going at it
Flagrante deluxe before our eyes, apparently
Unembarrassed by DDT. It must be spring
And the blood badgering underneath the skin
Is one of the spring ephemerals perking up
Before the overpowering shade of summer does it in.
Considering its circumstance, the smell of sweet bay
In the Bronx is close to sickening in sentiment:
What have we done? Is it true the English
Could have called Long Island as they did, Eden?
Anyway, if the seas keep warming up it will all be gone
And it may be our sense of this that unlocks the day,
Bringing trout lilies and marsh marigolds into mind
As the last of the concerts are letting out uptown,
And this that brings 800 to watch the egrets
In Jamaica Bay (one hundredth of a percent:
Viewed thus, "population per capita" is really small).
Stolen, our love of the world
Must be stolen from the world the way hepaticas
Steal light from the climax forest
Where alone they are able to grow. Too much with us
And too soon, the world extends its canopy
To alter the feel as well as color of the air.
How much time we have is hard to say
But, swift as the camera's shutter when it flowers,
That's how swift we're going to have to be
As the bloom of swamp maples reddens into the past
Just like the sun. The speed of the seasons
And their slant remain untouched and unidentified
Until the beauty of something beautiful makes the day.


—————————
Douglas Crase
The Revisionist
Litte, Brown 1981









Monday, April 23, 2018

WHERE ~








Where






down

along

slipped

moss dark

hollow never

too wide so

we can leap

back &

forth I

like to see

your hair

brighten

through the

hemlocks

stream







He Told Her I Was Very Sore







from pounding spikes upward

all day into old beams

and I am



out in the sun

resting flat on a pile of fresh planks I see

her come up through the woods trail to

massage my troubled shoulders



she is golden

green leaf top blouse

a very easy stride and gentleness

watching her come closer I am nearly healed





I See Forever






Although chilly

We were there at daylight

And walked from

Where you slipped off your shoes

Nothing but water — a salt air —

The toss of a hill

Where we sat, ladling these small stones

Even smaller

Which quickly filled the pockets of your dress






I Cut A Massive Maple Tree Down






I cut a massive maple tree down

Long long ago

I sculptured the tree stump into a chair

I sat up there

I also sat up there with my baby son

I sat up there with my love

I later saw my love sitting up there alone in the sun

She had a checkered red and black wool shirt

Thrown with the blondest hair

Then a chipmunk sat there for longer than you would think

And today I tore the carbonized tissue stump apart with my hands

All of it, very easily

And my son visited us with his wife for part of the afternoon

And in a week she was gone




————————————
BOB ARNOLD
I'm In Love With You
Who Is In Love With Me
Longhouse 2012


 




Sunday, April 22, 2018

RICHARD WILBUR & ROBERT LOWELL ~








ADVENIAT ~





M O R E






The tree farm's endless

rows of pines — my road to

his nursing home







There it was —

the old man's face

at a newsstand in Florence







I don't know

who's cutting our names

into the headstone







Bird tracks

in snow —

Dear Francis






Eyes shut tight —

there's

the old place







Finally graceful —

driftwood on

an iced-in shore







A small bird's song

the furnace

switches on







———————————

from Adveniat
John Martone
Red Moon Press
2018







Saturday, April 21, 2018

DRIFTER'S ESCAPE ~










CHASING PIRATES ~






JAZZ AND POP ~





A beautifully made book and illustrated
with deeply appraised essays of 57 albums
that should have you playing the albums
as you read ~
Superb!







Thursday, April 19, 2018

ORPHIC PARIS ~





I was going to include a recent interview with Henri Cole
but I found the presentation by the interviewer so over wrought
and ruining the elegant spacing and timing of Cole's
own presentation that I left well alone.
This is a lovely book.
As is.





New York Review of Books
2018




Tuesday, April 17, 2018