November Show’s over, folks. And didn’t October do A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon. Nothing left but fool’s gold in the trees. Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage, While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage And gone to shiver in their…
As we know the tRump misadministration has – for reasons of its own – declared New York City to be a jurisdiction of anarchy, violence and property destruction. This is Part Two. Part One is here. The Justice Department declared New York City A place of Anarchy, violence and Property losses. Live from New York City where folks Continue Their…
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this…
While T.S.Eliot was skulking about in green face powder, Gertrude Stein was communing with Cubists and inventing linguistic collage. And – this is amazing – developing the code book for the Special Operations Executive of WW2. Picasso was a frequent visitor to Stein’s salon and they became friends. While Picasso and the other Cubists were cutting and pasting and…
It takes a lot of time to be a genius, you have to sit around so much doing nothing, really doing nothing.– Gertrude Stein As you know from my earlier post I have recently been chatting with Gertrude Stein about her life and particularly aspects of her work Tender Buttons (1914). This was all facilitated by my early acquaintance with…
There, there, said the parent to the anguished child whose ice cream fell to the gutter. There! There! said the whale watcher pointing at the spout on the horizon. There’s no there there, said Gertrude Stein when she visited Oakland in 1934 and found her childhood home razed to the ground. In what they called an experiment, Stamp and Rave…
There’s a move afoot to rename the ten American military bases named for Confederates No more forts named for the traitors and white supremacists of the Confederacy. Here’s Elizabeth Warren on the subject: If they are to be renamed for successful military figures who were not traitors, how about Fort Tubman? Tubman – the first woman to lead an armed…
May the tide carry you out beyond the face of fear. Three poems for Sunday. Yesterday it snowed and I made tartar sauce – just mayonnaise, lemon juice, mustard and a chopped pickle – to go with the cubes of frozen fish. And today they say the temperature will rise into the 60s F. We have moved from an abundance…
To a Sewist extraordinaire, with thanks. This is just to say … . (Pictures to follow once they have been released from cardboard quarantine.) Sew – in anticipation of the opening of the package and – with many apologies to Paul Lawrence Dunbar: We Wear the Masks We wear the masks that we both chose They hide our cheeks and…
Politics without mercy, demonic world events, power without responsibility, nature takes flight. National Insecurity The Under Secretary leans forward and draws an X and her ear-drops dangle like swords of Damocles. As a mottled butterfly is invisible against the ground so the demon merges with the opened newspaper. A helmet worn by no one has taken power. The mother-turtle flees…
One thing always leads to another on the intertubes and this particular ravel started with my friend David Nice. David is a cultural critic and musicologist who maintains a wonderful blog – I’ll Think of Something Later – where he writes about music and travel and culture and all the life in between. In response to my last post he…
These days find me busy clearing and chucking, sorting and sifting, storing and saving. Three truck loads of stuff cleared by the junk removers, hundreds of books donated to the Poughkeepsie Library and wardrobes full of clothing to the Salvation Army. And still there’s more. As I clear out the clutter and crap and treasure and trove of decades, I…
It’s a late afternoon on a winter Saturday of my childhood. And that means the big Ferguson radio – the one that had the exotic place names on the dial – Hilversum, Strasbourg, Luxembourg, Limoges, Toulouse – is warmed up. The fire is lit, the coal scuttle is full and the kettle is on. And my father – who was…
Decomposition I have a picture I took in Bombay of a beggar asleep on the pavement: grey-haired, wearing shorts and a dirty shirt, his shadow thrown aside like a blanket. His arms and legs could be cracks in the stone, routes for the ants’ journeys, the flies’ descents, Brain-washed by the sun into exhaustion, he lies veined into stone, a…
I love this poem by Hans Magnus Enzensberger. It’s a commentary on the fact that – even in the darkest times – simple acts of unexpected generosity and kindness have the capacity to remind us that not everything is bleak and hopeless even in a nasty, brutish, trumpian world. Optimistic Little Poem Now and then it happens that somebody shouts…