LEONARD COHEN TONIGHT ~

 

℗ Originally released 1970 All rights reserved by Sony Music Entertainment

ANNA BADKHEN ~

 

R E A D   M E

SYLVIA TOWNSEND WARNER ~

 

In April

I am come to the threshold of a spring

Where there will be nothing

To stand between me and the smite

Of the martin's scooping flight,

Between me and the halloo

of the first cuckoo.

'As you hear the first cuckoo,

So you will be all summer through.'

This year I shall hear it naked and alone;

And lengthening days and strengthening sun will show

Me my solitary shadow,

My cypressed shadow — but no,

My Love, I was not alone; in my mind I was talking with you

When I heard the first cuckoo

And gentle as thistledown his call was blown.

__________________________

Sylvia Townsend Warner

Twelve Poems

Chatto & Windus, 1980

TONIGHT INSIDE LLEWYN DAVIS (MUSIC) ~

 

 Oscar Isaac

AMERICAN SCARY ~

 

R E A D   M E

       Algonquin Books, 2024

FOUR WALKS IN CENTRAL PARK ~

 

R E A D   M E

EARL SWEATSHIRT TONIGHT ~

 

    Warner 2025

JUSTIN TOWNES EARLE ~

 

R E A D   M E

    Da Capo 2026

ALISON KRAUSS TONIGHT ~

 

   2025

SYNNOVE ANKER AURDAL ~

 

R E A D   M E

      Mousse Publishing

      2024

SEMISONIC ALL NIGHT ~

 

Released on: 1998-03-24 Producer: Nick Launay Mixing Engineer: Bob Clearmountain Composer Lyricist: Dan Wilson

THE WESTERN CANON (HAROLD BLOOM) ~

 

W A L T   W H I T M A N' S   B I R T H D A Y

1819, West Hills, N.Y.

 R E A D   M E 

     Mariner 2025

WOMEN PRINTMAKERS ~

 

R E A D   M E

an excellent survey; great gift!

THE BEATLES OWN IT ~

 

Released on: 1968-11-22

Other, Producer: George Martin Composer Lyricist: Paul McCartney Composer Lyricist: John Lennon

THEA MATTHEWS ~

 

Huntsville

ALABAMA, 2021

FOR CHRISTINA NANCE

"Your great grand-daddy was a sharescropper here,"

my gramma would say, "until he disappeared."

Her skin was smooth like dark apple butter,

and her daughter, my mother, would look at me

like I was a whitetail.  The windows would crack,

and I'd be left with keloids and jars of pickled eggs.

The rest of my family were alligators.  I grew up shy.

Bobbing back and forth in my Sunday best,

I didn't talk much.  And when I did, I'd speak

as if my tongue were a sweet potato.

And when I'd sing, I sang making the Lord so proud of me.

I'd feel the Spirit rise within, swaying

my hips and arms like a church fan in one hand,

and frozen strawberry lemonade, in another.

O did I love to sing, and hum hymns in the halls,

and when my sister would say, "Sing, Christian!"

I would! I sure would, knowing my heart would be safe

for long walks away from the forest edge with my sister.

With my eyes hiding behind shelves, I knew to pose,

pay my taxes, write letters, pick passing

blackbirds as lovers.  They'd leave, I'd stay

I can smell anything., The scent of passion seeping

in through a man's skin.  I'd smell the sheets, Old Spice,

what lotion she was wearing.  I can even smell

the white lilacs on the day of my funeral.

To be a whitetail hunter, you must be so still.

I stopped singing the day I went missing.

Supposedly, I'm seen first lying on the lawn.

Supposedly, I'm then seen leaning on the hood of a cop car.

Supposedly, I take off my shoes.

                                                Twelve nights go by.

Somewhere, a whitetail hunter

dressed in camouflage smiles,

one arm around his doe for the trophy picture.

I'm found in the back of a police van.

___________________________

Thea Matthews

Grime

City Lights, 2025

MAKSHYA TOLBERT ~

 

Eastbound

At the end of their lives, the trees,

they tell us, Do not stay where you thin.

Can I speak about thinning?  As a child

I wrote these poems I called A Plant Called Hope.

I loved sick plants and wanted more for them.

I loved my mother and wanted more for her.

I lost the small book then lost my grandmother

then lost her house then almost lost my mother.

Believe me when I say plants and people find

their way. This time, I am eastbound. A stranger

has the grace to ask me, "Are you ready to come

back to Virginia?"  I stop believing in California:

it hurts too much.  Tell me to have my easterly

shoes on.  Tell me east will have me back, if

I love softly. I throw on my transition shoes.

Ask me again if I'm ready to come back

to Virginia.  This time, ask me in front of the trees.

I'll find a place of rest in the middle of things.

____________________________

MaKshya Tolbert

Shade is a place

Penguin 2025

DAVID HENDERSON, POET ~

 

D A V I D   H E N D E R S O N

    photo: No Land, 2019

IMMANUEL WILKINS BLUES BLOOD ~

 

℗ 2024 UMG Recordings, Inc.

DAVID PARK, A PAINTER'S LIFE ~

 

D A V I D   P A R K

    University of California Press

   2012

SONNY ROLLINS ~

 

S O N N Y   R O L L I N S

1 2   E S S E N T I A L   A L B U M S