Saturday, April 30, 2022
Friday, April 29, 2022
Thursday, April 28, 2022
Wednesday, April 27, 2022
Tuesday, April 26, 2022
! H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y !
Born April 26, 1935
"The only way to stay out
of trouble is to grow old"
The Lady From Shanghai
photograph by Mark Reinertson
Charley sent it to me last weekend
Monday, April 25, 2022
"Don't think yourselves better because you burn up
friends and enemies with long range missiles
without ever seeing what you have done."
It is unconscionable that while Ukrainians are being slaughtered, NATO members still send hundreds of millions of euros every day to Mr. Putin’s coffers to buy oil and gas. Political leaders who oppose a total halt to transfers to Russia are complicit in Mr. Putin’s war crimes. They are indirectly paying the wages of those who committed atrocities in Bucha. Ending all imports of Russian oil and gas would come at a significant price, but it would be small compared to the continued destruction in Ukraine. Here too, Finland is moving in the right direction, promising to end the country’s reliance on Russian energy imports in a matter of “weeks or months.”
The Resourceful Bulrush
I hear rain even when it's not the rain,
I rejoice in dawn even when it's not the dawn,
But my own white pulp stirring among the mud.
A child's mouth ruffles me with its teeth.
Love of the silent waters!
The hawthorn has the nightingale.
I have the spells that bind.
translated by Mark Hutchinson
Seagull Books, 2015
Sunday, April 24, 2022
Saturday, April 23, 2022
Friday, April 22, 2022
Thursday, April 21, 2022
I lived in the first century of world wars.
Most mornings I would be more or less insane,
The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories,
The news would pour out of various devices
Interrupted by attempts to see products to the unseen.
I could call my friends on their devices;
They would be more or less made for similar reasons.
Slowly I would get to pen and paper,
Make my poems for others unseen and unborn.
In the day I would be reminded of those men and women
Brave, setting up signals across vast distances,
Considering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined values.
As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened,
We would try to imagine them, try to find each other.
To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile
Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,
Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means
To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,
To let go the means, to wake.
I lived in the first century of these wars.
The Essential Muriel Rukeyser
Wednesday, April 20, 2022
A while ago I got sick.
It was a thorough and major sick.
Lost use of the old hands and feet,
Which was, as you can imagine, weird.
My kids called the sickness The Thing.
The Thing went on for months and months.
I could tell you lots of stories about The Thing,
But there's only one story that I want to tell you:
Every morning my son got up early to help me
Put my socks on. I would sit on the back stairs
In the dark and he would wrestle my socks on
And neither of us would say any words and I
Still can't think of anything cooler than that.
I have racked my brains and considered
All the possibilities of love and I still
Return to that boy and those socks.
No matter what happens to me,
That happened to me.
One Long River of Song
Little, Brown, 2019
photo: Brian Doyle & his family, 2017
Tuesday, April 19, 2022
Monday, April 18, 2022
Sunday, April 17, 2022
Saturday, April 16, 2022
Friday, April 15, 2022
Thursday, April 14, 2022
Wednesday, April 13, 2022
You who taught numbers to know the rainbow
Who opened every door in the celestial city
Who always made more when there was less
Who enchanted birds
Who loved all things except the mean
Should you be seen
Dancing in your golden ashes
About half a league off our port beam
As we go out the Gate
While the sun sets clear
Will you tell us one more time
How hard it is to be human
When it's so easy to be divine
Alice Paalen Rahon
New York Review of Books
Translated by Mary Ann Caws
Tuesday, April 12, 2022
screeching like baby birds
in a crowded nest ~
on the fourth day
I named the fly
my senile father
eats the fortune cookie
and the fortune
our beautiful old love
on such thin ice
we can't even shiver
pulled from my thumb
spit into the fire
because of my old father
my old mother has learned
to make baby food
after the storm
of soft rain
going out the door
i pass a grape that had
rolled away from breakfast
a fence between
the cemetery and the road
leans toward the road
mountains disappear in fog
and i want to go right along
selected from ~
In A Clay Pig's Eye
Seastone Editions, 2005