Showing posts with label Maine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maine. Show all posts

Thursday, August 27, 2020

RE-READING GEORGE DENNISON ~




A somewhat forgotten and misunderstood book
which can be aligned with Thoreau's Walden
except we are in rural Maine with George Dennison's
personal journals and his playwright ear for neighbor
portraits — landscape & lingo — and while George passed away
far too soon (1987) to put these pages together into what others
have predicted would be a masterpiece, it's all in the eyes of the beholder.
I met George Dennison once upon a time when we hosted a
gala for a fine Vermont poet and George was there and while
everyone took their chosen corners of our house to bed down
for the night, George said he'd be just as happy out in the front
yard, under the starry hemlocks and the August night with
his sleeping bag. In Temple there is short passage
where George describes a home place
and it may as well be George describing himself,
"The house and grounds are so attractive, cheerful and open —
ample, generous, farm and home."
The book and author — unique.

[ BA ]





Steerforth Press
1994


As for those that criticize Temple for being
merely loose pages from a journal by Dennison —
have a look at Shawno



a gem of a book at 86 pages
straight out of the heart of Temple, Maine
in the home built by Finns as George would write
and his lovely companion, a dog, called Shawno.

___________________
Schocken Books, 1984









Saturday, June 1, 2019

PHILIP BOOTH ~








Half-Life





3:00 a.m. Back

from the bathroom,

I've lain awake

for an hour. I

was all right at

2:00, most of me's

still O.K. My feet

are down at the end

of the bed, they and

my head and testicles

still seem to be

the right size. But

my hands, clamped

shut like a baby's

fist, are big as

a catcher's mitt,

each thumb's as big

as a fat man's leg.

I can't get any

sound up from my

throat. I grab

for breath, trying

to cry out.

                   Though

she has been dead

for half my life,

my mother — all

her illnesses

still intact — leans

her softness

over my crib,

and tries with-

out words to

hold me. She

tries and tries

to hold me.




_______________________

Philip Booth
Pairs
Penguin, 1994








Friday, August 3, 2018

MAINE ~









University Press of New England
Island Institute
2018