If you’re interested in receiving a free review copy of Thought That Nature, shoot me an email with your address and I’ll be happy to send one your way on a long or short journey beginning at the San Marcos post office.
HAVE YOU NOTICED?
I see our imaginary life
rushing past: a Morse code.
Heaps of leaves in country corners.
It’s fall and you’re voluble.
Something new’s knocking at the shutters.
Not another word about summer, yellow as straw.
Stubborn birds are on the wing,
and my armpits are cold.
Forget all that. Come closer, can’t you.
There’s no intimacy
to our words.
Have you noticed this,
The swallows that dart along so low are gone.
I’ve got only one face
when you look at me.
(translated by Stuart Friebert)
DON’T READ BOOKS
Don’t read books,
don’t chant poems:
read books and your eyes wither until they see bones,
chant poems and every word’s vomited from the heart.
People say it’s delightful to read books,
they say it’s wondrous to chant poems,
but it means lips hissing on and on like autumn insects,
and makes you thin and frail, ravages you with old-age.
Thin and frail, ravaged with age—that may not be much,
but it’s pretty annoying for anyone close enough to hear.
It’s nothing like closing your eyes and sitting in a study:
lower the blinds and sweep away the dust, light some incense,
then listen to wind, listen to rain: they have such flavors.
When you’re strong, walk. And when you’re tired, sleep.
(trans. David Hinton)
Though I’ll probably never get over Games 6 and 7 of the 2013 NBA Finals, last night mostly (but definitely not entirely) made up for it. Proud to be a native San Antonian and a fan of such a smart, humble, unselfish organization. Go Spurs.