Sunday, November 15, 2009

A Day in Autumn

It will not always be like this,
The air windless, a few last
Leaves adding their decoration
To the trees’ shoulders, braiding the cuffs
Of the boughs with gold; a bird preening

In the lawn’s mirror. Having looked up
From the day’s chores, pause a minute,
Let the mind take its photograph
Of the bright scene, something to wear
Against the heart in the long cold.

R.S. Thomas (1913 - 2000 / Wales)

What F. Scott Fitzgerald’s tax returns reveal about his life and times.

Bibliotaphy - the silent killer

Hollywood's Favorite Cowboy -
Author Cormac McCarthy

Mikhail Kalashnikov, the Russian soldier who invented one of history’s most fearsome killing machines — “the AK-47 assault rifle, beloved of guerrillas around the world” — announced at a Kremlin reception on Tuesday in honor of his 90th birthday that he really wanted to be a poet.

Tutu: J'aime les touristes'je mange leur croissants!

I'm a poodle? I don't feel like a poodle. I bet I'm really a German Shepherd.


It's not very often we get to watch a film based on a book of poetry. The new Canadian film, Love and Savagery, released today is such a rare occasion.

“Translators are the shadow heroes of literature, the often forgotten instruments that make it possible for different cultures to talk to one another.”—Paul Auster

Scorched Maps

I took a trip to Ukraine. It was June.
I waded in the fields, all full of dust
and pollen in the air. I searched, but those
I loved had disappeared below the ground,

deeper than decades of ants. I asked
about them everywhere, but grass and leaves
have been growing, bees swarming. So I lay down,
face to the ground, and said this incantation—

you can come out, it’s over. And the ground,
and moles and earthworms in it, shifted, shook,
kingdoms of ants came crawling, bees began
to fly from everywhere. I said come out,

I spoke directly to the ground and felt
the field grow vast and wild around my head.

Tomasz Rozycki’s poem Scorched Maps

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Wow, great stuff.


The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau