Some words from Czeslaw Milosz |
We are moving to another home and have been boxing up all our hundreds of books. I found so many old friends covered with dust, sitting on shelves. Here is an old friend that I wanted to share.Jamie...
Posted by on Sat, 04 Apr 2009 08:29:00 GMT |
Home |
Some animals liberate days, and then manynights, lazily grazing, playing in soft greenery of spring, in its bright bottled kaleidoscope ofyouth, bravery in numbers, and the musty smells of lo...
Posted by on Wed, 04 Mar 2009 22:09:00 GMT |
Pablo Neruda "Love Sonnet XLVI" |
XLVI
Of all the stars I admired, drenchedin various rivers and mists,I chose only the one I love.Since then I sleep with the night.
Of all the waves, one wave and another wave,green sea, green chill, ...
Posted by on Sun, 23 Nov 2008 16:19:00 GMT |
W.S. Merwin "Air" |
AIR
Naturally it is night.Under the overturned lute with itsOne string I am going my wayWhich has a strange sound.
This way the dust, that way the dust.I listen to both sidesBut I keep right on.I reme...
Posted by on Sun, 23 Nov 2008 05:37:00 GMT |
Ode to Bukowski |
you german piece of shitsitting alone drinking a beeryou drank winethe night beforethe same nightyou met a brunettewithout any figureand you and herleft the bardrank two bottles of wineyou lonely...
Posted by on Sun, 06 Jul 2008 16:35:00 GMT |
Life with Sam |
My son, Samuel Hunter Hamann, is nineteen months old. We live in Reno in an old house, near downtown, with a small yard. Last weekend I made sure he was properly sunblocked and we journeyed out into t...
Posted by on Fri, 04 Jul 2008 23:07:00 GMT |
To a Flying Creature |
I have gently wounded your wings,I was not man enoughto finish the passion.I left you crawlingon cabbage colored carpetwatching the universeSpin in your death-dance,and I the unforgiven murderercan on...
Posted by on Sat, 28 Jun 2008 22:34:00 GMT |
When Ancient Music is a Cuckoo Song |
To Ezra Pound
You say it is icumen inand lhude you singa verse that groweth and blowethgoddamn,A spring and winter staineth,goddamn,a poet singeth cuccu'gainst muriecus, 'gain goddamnsing cuccu goddam...
Posted by on Sat, 28 Jun 2008 16:13:00 GMT |
Ode to Bill Cowee |
Pleasure, sitting like a child softlyon the edge, gazing over mosscovered bridges, overlooking sunrise,falling on beams of green,surrounding each splashlike laughter, whiledishes soak, and the refrige...
Posted by on Sat, 28 Jun 2008 16:01:00 GMT |
Milk |
Nappy haired women waitressbeer to my table and fillthe kerosene lamps with milk.
Sometimes I wish I could belike the nappy haired women who pourmilk, when they sing the blues at dawn.
Posted by on Sat, 28 Jun 2008 15:58:00 GMT |
