ANGELA EASTERLING ~

THE FORCE ~

Unfortunately Don Winslow, while still a crime writing force,

seems to be writing more for the big screen rather than

a great book read. Read his The Cartel, where the first

100 pages of an engrossing tale will hold your

feet to the fire, whereas in The Force you

may slog for the first 100 pages

enduring a main character

that seems cut right

out of one played

by Josh Brolin

in the

film

American Gangster.

Fine in the film.

Tedious here.

But it picks up by about page 200

in a book that goes over 400 pages.

If you're a crime writer fan, you'll hang in there.

Expect a movie.

[BA]

Morrow 2017

UP THE TRAIL ~

Up The Trail

I could see the hawk fly off

Through the trees but you didn’t —

So I felt like I didn’t

The Way

I can’t tell

If it’s fighting

Or love the way

The two songbirds

Shoot upward

Wings threshing

Flying way high

Into the snow

Falling as tail-

Feathers unfold

Into one fan

Baker

Kitchen spotless —

But flour

On her lips

While Deep Snow

Falls In The

North Woods

clear

clean

tea

cups

in

the

kit

chen

Sure

The cat hides away all

Day asleep and thinks nothing

Of coming out and wanting a kiss

————————————

BOB ARNOLD

I'm In Love With You

Who Is In Love With Me

Longhouse 2012

FAY CHIANG ~

F A Y      C H I A N G

~

L I S T E N !

BALLAD OF A CARPENTER ~

THOMAS BERNHARD ~

My Great-Grandfather Was A Lard Merchant




My great-grandfather was a lard merchant,

and today

some still recall him

between Henndorf and Thalgan,

Seekirchen and Kostendorf,

and they hear his voice

and draw

together at his table,

which was also the table of gentlemen.

1881, in the spring,

he made up his mind for life: he planted

grape vines along a wall outside the house

and called the beggars together;

his wife, Maria, the one with the black ribbon,

gave him a further thousand years.

He invented the music of pigs

and the fire of bitterness,

he spoke of the wind

and of the wedding of the dead.

He would give me not one slice of speck

for my despair.




——————————————

Thomas Bernhard
translated by James Reidel
COLLECTED POEMS
Seagull Books 2017

NEVER GONE ~

ERNEST HEMINGWAY ~

There are now a number of fine biographies now circulating

all written by women

and each one a powerful contribution

to the world of letters —

Bannos on Vivian Maier, Herrera on Noguchi,

and now Mary Dearborn on Hemingway

possibly the finest single volume biography

of Ernest Hemingway to date.

It may be because it takes a woman to see straight through a man.

And for the first time, we may finally have a balanced eye and report

as to the lives and struggle of "Papa's"

four wives.

[BA]

T-MODEL FORD ~

MIRIAM ~

ISRAFEL ~

THOMAS A. CLARK ~

Yellow & Blue

                                    a selection



on a morning early
when no one
is around
the scree slope
tumbles into
the green lichen









an insult
hurled in the face
a pebble-dash
of raindrops









the rain-drenched
cloudberries
taste of earth
and cloud









rain is falling
there and here
on an earth
or ground
repeatedly affirmed
as if it were
unbelievable









lie back in the heather
the winds are silk
cloths drawn lightly
over the slopes
the cheek bones









consonants with varied
points of articulation
palatalized and rounded
sibilants affricates
clicks clacks diphthongs
a burn or babble
of open vowels









older than looking
this listening older than listening
this lonesome
touch









it takes a lot
of noise to clear
old sunlight
from pine woods









light that might
spread indefinitely
never to be known
is trapped in leaves
and pulled down
through the tree canopy
around everybody









nothing hides
in the abandoned places
no household gods
no folded spaces
flint left in the wall
long idle









a jug of water
a chink of light
a twist of smoke









wash it in the burn
dry it on a thorn
sew it with a needle
with pure white thread
putting the iron on it
press it and warm it
place it crisp and folded
in the right hands








neighbors on the doorstep
nomads at a border





——————————

Carcanet 2014

ESSAYS FROM THE HIGH PLAINS ~

Johnson Books

Boulder, Colorado

1998

——————————

I have never found and read a book by Merrill Gilfillan

that I have not enjoyed cover to cover

bark to tree, bird to song,

ocean to ocean

—————————

WORK DAY ~

( sun

  rise )

she raises

her eyes

to mine

Suddenly,

spring

like

and

so

are

we

Work Day

I like

her 

sweater

it used

to be

mine

Love Her

At the sawbuck —

A little sweaty

Loosening blonde hair

Rugged black shorts

A rolling blouse

Work Gloves

On the garden gate

Left here with me —

Shape of her hands






Woodcutter’s Memo

It will fit into the firebox

If — when she measures it —

Its height doesn’t reach

Above her knee

————————————

BOB ARNOLD

I'm In Love With You

Who Is In Love With Me

Longhouse 2012

AMERICAN FOLK SONGS ~

Cornell University Press 2015

R E A D     M E

FINN WILCOX ~

Women




I'm doing the dishes.

It's summer.

My wife and my mother

are outside

sitting by the fire

laughing so hard

I have to set the pans aside

and watch.



It's important to

pay attention to joy.

To love that is serious.



Now they are showing

each other earrings,

mom's silver bracelet,

Pat's jade teardrops

looped around her neck.

The night sky

bringing its own

slow jewelry to bear.



It hasn't always been like this.

I wasn't an easy son.



To those who say

redemption

dwells only in the house

of the Lord:

I say

you haven't met these women.







Outdoor Work




The one time

I experienced what my Buddhist friends

call enlightenment,

that recognition, sharp and clear

as a shot of cheap whiskey,

was packing my tree bag

on a landing pooled in drained skidder oil

in a clear-cut

big as the town I lived in,

understanding

finally and fully,

the rotting extravagance of greed.







Hard To Believe




Hard to believe only

yesterday

we stood on the cliffs

of Cold Mountain



watching swallows

    sweep and skip

across a drifting

cloudless

sky.



Sat in the mouth

of old Han Shan's cave —

smoked our last sticky ball

of Hong Kong hash —



and watched in silence

    the billowing dust

rise behind farmers

in the valley below.



Tonight though —

from the roof of

the Friendship Hotel —

the wet streets of Ningpo

shine with city lights

and are filed with Russian sailors

so drunk

they couldn't hit the ground

with their hats.



Sure, it's not Cold Mountain.

But from here —

above the fray

and narrow lanes —

you see

where this harbor town ends



and the East China Sea

begins.





——————————————

FINN WILCOX
Too Late To Turn Back Now
EMPTY BOWL, 2018

JAMES SALTER ~

J A M E S      S A L T E R

THE COMPANY THEY KEPT ~

R O B E R T   B.   S I L V E R S