Before the rain settled in for the weekend, we strolled over to the Central Park Conservatory Garden. The spring bulbs had already been dug up and were being given away last time we visited, and the new plantings weren’t in yet. Still, there was plenty to enjoy. The day was windy, and the foxgloves shivered too much for a good…
I am his Highness’ dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you? Evening traffic homeward burns Swift and even on the turns. Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat Umberto Eco argued that lists are the…
“Sweet, bland commendations fall everywhere upon the scene; a universal, if somewhat lobotomized, accommodation reigns.” — Elizabeth Hardwick, 1959 One of my online routines is reading The Book Jotter each week. It’s a reliable way to keep up with what’s going on in the literary world, and if you care about books at all, I recommend subscribing. One item it…
Arthur Hugh Clough’s “Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth” is a poem for the weary. Not for the triumphant, nor for the newly inspired, but for those who have begun to fear that their effort may be pointless. Clough does not begin with triumph. He begins with correction: Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are…
Where Not there, on the tight bend of the paved highway, where cars are occasionally prone to skidding, chiefly in winter, though no one dies there, not there where streets are greener and leafier where lawns are mowed and there’s a dog in the garden and the head of the family gets home late at night, nor there in front…
The Hammer Test: What Happens When a Poem Rings Hollow? “I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.” That’s a saying often attributed to John Ashbery. He never actually said it except when quoting the poet Robert Duncan, who offered the words in praise of Ashbery’s poem Spring Day: “I have…
In his day, the Soviet poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko’ was something of an international rock star whose readings could fill sports stadiums. He was one of those A-List literati who make the front pages. His poem Lies was much anthologized in English teaching materials in the years following its publication in the Soviet Literary journal Novy Mir in 1959. The kind…
Poems by Charles Simic (1938-2023) January Children’s fingerprints On a frozen window Of a small schoolhouse. An empire, I read somewhere, Maintains itself through The cruelty of its prisons. The Election They promised us free lunch And all we got Edna Is wind and rain And these broken umbrellas To wield angrily At cars and buses Eager to run us…
There’s a lovely exhibit currently on show at the Morgan Library. It’s the work of artist-illustrator Ashley Bryan (see below for the Morgan’s description.) Many of the pieces are collages in the vibrant colors of the kind of elementary school construction paper. I could imagine school group trips and the response to the words and the pictures as inspiring “I…
Poetry is critical to a complete understanding of the First World War because in the years leading up to and including the war, poetry played a central role in public and private life. Constance Ruzich, in the introduction to the anthology. It was Paul Fussell who showed us that the young British officer class that went off to the Great…
Digging in the clutter I came across a literary game I played in the back of a college notebook. (I should have been taking notes.) It’s simple. Write down a well-known line from a poem and provide an unsuitable second line. Another way to play: Make up a random and outrageous second line and have someone guess the first. Here…
I came across “The Consent” when I was exploring Howard Nemerov’s life and work for some other posts. It seems appropriate for about now. The Consent Late in November, on a single night Not even near to freezing, the ginkgo trees That stand along the walk drop all their leaves In one consent, and neither to rain nor to wind…
Stickybeak NOUN: an intrusive, meddlesome, busybody, nosy parker who sticks their nose (beak) into other people’s business. The act of stickybeaking. VERB: to snoop or pry into other’s people’s business. This was a delightful new word for me this week although it’s clearly common currency in Australia and New Zealand. I came across it first in one of a series…
First Grade by Ron Kortgee Until then, every forest had wolves in it, we thought it would be fun to wear snowshoes all the time, and we could talk to water. So who is this woman with the gray breath calling out names and pointing to the little desks we will occupy for the rest of our lives? I read…
In his series of WW1 epitaphs, Rudyard Kipling comments on the all too common fate of a new soldier at the front who – curious about the enemy – cannot resist taking a look and unwittingly exposes his head to a sniper. The beginner On the first hour of my first day In the front trench I fell.…