© 2013 Light in the Attic
daydreaming w/ Bob Arnold
Ode on the Wildest Word
No, sir, I am not your baby, not your twenty-dollar
shot of tequila, not your excise tax on petroleum
jelly, your high-risk dirigible in the bomb-alicious
sky filled with lies, the radio highs that last
three minutes tops, the shuck and jive of yes ma'am,
doublethink spam, drink-the-Kool-Aid
Marxist sham, the wham up-against-the-wall
cattle call of the true believers, left and right,
the slight lisp on the edge of doom. O no, Daddy-o,
I cannot swim out to your island of swoon,
or the two-bit room in the Alligator Motel, that hell,
with its sharp teeth and open jaws, the seesaw
back and forth between high noon and doom,
that tune. No, baby, I'm sitting here all alone,
grown woman, looking back on all the tricks, the love
sick delirium that blasts off to the moon
and then dissolves into a rule book and curdled milk,
the silk cave of raven wings, the slinky
rinky-dink dance with death, the breathless sigh. O my,
I'm saying no to the bye-bye lullaby,
half-hearted whisky-and-rye apocalypse afternoon,
the harpoon-in-my-gut regret that say yes
no everything, sings soprano in the church choir, mucks
in the mire outside the front door, the storm gutter
matter of cant, the torn dress and sweaty hankering
to do good, so here I am in a rococo imbroglio
of Hamlet and moonshine, the backwoods banter
that begets shame, the no-name oblivion
of staying on the bus as it travels through the war zone
and lets you off at what was once home.
______________________________
Barbara Hamby
BURN
UPittsburgh Press, 2025
Paul Simon "Graceland" 1986
℗ 2024 New West Records, LLC Released on: 2024-08-09 Main Artist: Justin Townes Earle Producer: Kim Buie Producer: Adam Bednarik Composer: Justin Townes Earle Music Publisher: Music (BMI) All Rights Administered By BMG Rights Management (US) LLC
A short song from one of Woody's radio broadcasts. (1940's?) Featured in this performance are: *Woody of course-guitar and voc. *the great SONNY TERRY on harmonica, "whooops" and voc. other musicians most likely featured in this performance: *Pete Seeger - banjo *Cisco Houston - guitar voc. (pictured with Woody at :25)
℗ 2008 Billy Bragg Released on: 2008-03-03 Main Artist: Billy Bragg Music Publisher: Cooking Vinyl Limited Composer: Billy Bragg
Soul of a Nation: Afro-Centric Visions in the Age of Black Power - Underground Jazz, Street Funk & the Roots of Rap 1968-79
from Song of Hiawatha
And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets,
The Wabenos, the Magicians,
And the Medicine-men, the Medas,
Painted upon bark and deer-skin
Figures for the songs they chanted,
For each song a separate symbol,
Figures mystical and awful,
Figures strange and brightly colored;
And each figure had its meaning,
Each some magic song suggested.
_______________________
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
So Light You Were
I Would Have Carried You
So light you were
I would have carried you,
hacked from the ice
a bridge,
you in my arms,
from February into April.
And crossed
above the snow
banked narrowing
the streets, this winter's
tired citizens, the erlking
and his foundling crossing.
Light as you were
I would have carried you
from the room
of your death back
to our room,
climbed back,
crawled up the stairs
to our bed.
From February into
April, hid in your arms
in the woods
frantic please.
Light as we were.
And could be carried out
on a float of last year's
leaves
and bracken thaw
rinsing the tide pools.
So light you were.
I would have carried you
from February
into April.
___________________________
Deborah Digges
Trapeze
Knopf, 2004
Heartbeat
Hold me
too
close to
tell
whose is
whose.
Echo
A lone
voice
in the
right
empty space
makes
its own
best
company.
Exposure
What you're
eager to
believe may
say more
about you
than you'd
be eager
to admit.
Ulysses
Even frailer,
bound for failure
die at sea or home
I roam.
________________________________
Robert M. West
A Clear Eye
Broadstone Books, 2026
Musiciens: Matano Juma ; Yasseen Mohamed ; Zuhura Swaleh ; Ali Mkali ; Zein l’Abdin ; Maulidi Juma ; Zuhura & Zein Musical Part ; Ahmed bin Brek
Production exécutive / éditeur / transferts / restauration / mastering : Werner Graebner
Enregistrements : Zanzibar (2004) ; Dubaï (2005)
Prise de son : Werner Graebner
Writer and veteran Tim O'Brien reflects on the moral weight of the Vietnam War’s most infamous atrocity. Official website: https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexpe... | #AmericanExperiencePBS In this interview from the American Experience archives, novelist and Vietnam War veteran Tim O'Brien, author of "The Things They Carried," reflects on the legacy of the 1968 My Lai massacre, in which U.S. soldiers killed hundreds of unarmed Vietnamese civilians. O’Brien discusses how the massacre shaped Americans’ understanding of the war, the moral and psychological toll on the soldiers involved, and the challenges of confronting painful truths about the past. Drawing on his experience as both a veteran and a writer, O’Brien explores how memory, storytelling, and accountability shape the way societies remember war. His reflections illuminate the broader context of the conflict and the lasting impact of My Lai on American public life. O’Brien spoke to American Experience on November 20, 2009. This interview was conducted for our 2015 documentary MY LAI and is being published as part of our series spotlighting remarkable archival conversations with historians, journalists, eyewitnesses, and other primary sources whose insights deepen our understanding of the past. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Day on Fire
The door shined in fiery daylight
but the braids of the women there
held still
one of them leaned over the waters on the cauldron
and on a piece of porcelain
a painted bird had worn itself out with singing.
The messenger was seen to come in
with a letter and a golden loaf in his hands
he spoke
then it was dead silence
and the whole garden gave up its scent.
Landscape with Two Laborers
The countyside was calm
a girl was washing her unblemished leg
and the hours
etched themselves into the cloth they faded
attacking the damask flowers.
The pages of a schoolbook
had been carried off by the wind
up above the eglantines
and down the length of the path
to ditches filled with clever beasts
to embankments covered in those herbs
favored for soothing teas
two laborers took their time
telling each other
the secrets of working with wood.
The Notice
The child pushing along the ring of a barrel
as his makeshift hoop
runs alone and shouts
but to the one who has just spelled out
beneath the N and the eagle of Empire
the draft notice
the old man says simply
in the blazing sun
while drinking a foamy pear cider:
"the next century will be worse"
though lovers go by singing.
Edge of the Hearth
The outbuildings with no real use
are left to the rains
a peasant woman
has an edge of the black hearth
for a seat
the evening turns
in swirls of her breath
the wind in the hollow tree
why beings and things
she thinks
and not nothing
_______________________________
Jean Follain
Earthly
The Song Cave 2025
translated by Andrew Seguin
Their ashes
where my father used to kneel
planting
where my mother used to bend
picking
As she puts
water on for tea
from my own pile
of bones and ashes
I reassess hers
In a crowded mountain bus
the endlessly monotonous
talk about Buddhist scriptures
when all I want to listen to
are the wheels on the road
The degrees to which
the closed fairgrounds
brings in even more
spellbinding beauty
to the sunset
In early spring mist
my lover floats across fields
from one dream
of sweet grass
to another
Our old
peacefully
decaying bodies
talking to children
selling lemonade
For anyone who sings
by a small window
in a small room
in the depths of
dying light
In the bedroom
sweeping up popcorn
from the night before
I see the hopeful eyes
of birds in the window
_____________________________
Ronald Baatz
One Oblivious Orange Fish
A Very Small Snowflake
A very small snowflake, you
As if dancing
As if slowly dancing, approach
My face
Instead of falling straight down like all the other snowflakes
Somehow, you spread your wings toward my face
But where did you get to, after that?
I never saw you again.
___________________
Han Kang
from The New Yorker, Feb 16, 2026
translated from the Korean by Maya West