August 2011
9 posts
The San Antonio Spurs make the playoffs. A lot. →
Samuel Beckett on his ideal gravestone:
empirewithoutanemperor:
“It can be any colour, so long as it’s grey.”
1 tag
Let Us
You can read my story, “Let Us,” for free over at the Sonora Review Short Fiction Fortnight. Thanks, Benjamin!
Fatigue
I have two 3-hole punches; I do not have a stapler.
Letter to poet requesting future drunk
nickcourtright:
Dear person,
You live on Earth and I live on Earth and we both have word diseases so sometime we should commiserate on our suffering with beer. Maybe together we can have a good cry for language and our souls. Thoughts? Nick
July 2011
6 posts
1 tag
schooner poems →
15 Wonderful Words With No English Equivalent →
nevver:
1. Zhaghzhagh (Persian)
The chattering of teeth from the cold or from rage.
2. Yuputka (Ulwa)
A word made for walking in the woods at night, it’s the phantom sensation of something crawling on your skin.
3. Slampadato (Italian)
Addicted to the infra-red glow of tanning salons? This word describes you.
4. Luftmensch (Yiddish)
The Yiddish have scores of words to describe...
1 tag
Forthcoming August 2012 →
Oh my.
June 2011
22 posts
1 tag
The Building of the Skyscraper
The steel worker on the girder
Learned not to look down, and does his work
And there are words we have learned
Not to look at,
Not to look for substance
Below them. But we are on the verge
Of vertigo.
There are words that mean nothing
But there is something to mean.
Not a declaration which is truth
But a thing
Which is. It is the business of the poet
‘To suffer the things of the...
1 tag
Ferry
Gleams, a green lamp
In the fog:
Murmur, in almost
A dialogue
Siren and signal
Siren to signal.
Parts the shore from the fog,
Rise there, tower on tower,
Signs of stray light
And of power.
Siren to signal
Siren to signal.
Hour-gongs and the green
Of the lamp.
Plash. Night. Plash. Sky.
1 tag
Homosexuality
Roses that wear roses
Enjoy mirrors.
Roses that wear roses must enjoy
The flowers they are worn by.
Roses that wear roses are dying
With a mirror behind them.
None of us are younger but the roses
Are dying.
Men and women have weddings and funerals
Are conceived and destroyed in a formal
Procession.
Roses die upon a bed of roses
With mirrors weeping at them.
1 tag
Real Article
Everything I know
is something I’ve repeated.
Lazy horn solo
tries to wander off,
but can’t,
or does,
and we don’t notice.
Veterans Day flags
lap idly
at their poles.
The day is warm.
“The.”
1 tag
Windy Afternoon
Through the wood
on his motorcycle piercing
the hawk, the jay
the blue-coated policeman
Woods, barren woods,
as this typewriter without an object
or the words that from you
fall soundless
The sun lowering
and the bags of paper
on the stoney ledge
near the waterfall
Voices down the roadway
and leaves falling over there
a great vacancy
a huge left over
The quality of the day...
1 tag
Return
Quiet as is proper for such places;
The street, subdued, half-snow, half-rain,
Endless, but ending in the darkened doors.
Inside, they who will be there always,
Quiet as is proper for such people—
Enough for now to be here, and
To know my door is one of these.
1 tag
from Six Significant Landscapes
III
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way the ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.
