from washing the elephant by barbara ras
so much good poetry today
take a gander at that beaut from the new yorker.
3.31.2010
resolved to remind you that he's been around longer than your love
= story of my weekend with my mother
To My Son's Girlfriend
I'm tempted to ask
what you see in him.
Although you probably
see the good that I see
I wonder if you realize
how much he is my handiwork,
or which of the qualities
you daydream about in class
are the ones that I take pride in,
his cordiality, for example,
or love of silliness.
It's uncomfortable for me
to think of anyone else
loving him the way I do,
possessing him in a way
that only his mother and I
have ever possessed him,
and I can't deny being jealous,
not so much reluctant
to share or relinquish him
as resolved to remind you
that he's been around
longer than your love,
under construction if you will,
and that each cute trait
or whatever occurs to you
when you hear his name
I feel proprietary about,
like a woodworker
who makes a table
intending to sell it
but prays that no buyer
will recognize its worth.
by Michael Milburn
To My Son's Girlfriend
I'm tempted to ask
what you see in him.
Although you probably
see the good that I see
I wonder if you realize
how much he is my handiwork,
or which of the qualities
you daydream about in class
are the ones that I take pride in,
his cordiality, for example,
or love of silliness.
It's uncomfortable for me
to think of anyone else
loving him the way I do,
possessing him in a way
that only his mother and I
have ever possessed him,
and I can't deny being jealous,
not so much reluctant
to share or relinquish him
as resolved to remind you
that he's been around
longer than your love,
under construction if you will,
and that each cute trait
or whatever occurs to you
when you hear his name
I feel proprietary about,
like a woodworker
who makes a table
intending to sell it
but prays that no buyer
will recognize its worth.
by Michael Milburn
the way she was carrying the whole of the world's violence and cruelty in her body, or trying to...
so. amazing.
what an incredible piece.
take the time to read this.
Some of David's Story
"That first time I met her, at the party, she said,
'I have an English father and an American mother
and I went to school in London and Providence, Rhode Island,
and at some point I had to choose,
so I moved back to London and became the sort of person
who says puh-son instead of purr-son.'
For the first person she had chosen an accent
halfway between the other two.
It was so elegant I fell in love on the spot. Later,
I understood that it was because I thought
that little verbal finesse meant
she had made herself up entirely.
I felt so much what I was and, you know,
that what I was was not that much,
so she just seemed breathtaking."
*
"Her neck was the thing, and that tangle of copper hair.
And, in those days, her laugh, the way
she moved through a room. Like Landor's line—
she was meandering gold, pellucid gold."
*
"Her father was a philosopher,
fairly eminent in that world, and the first time
I was there to dinner, they talked about California wines
in deference to me, I think, though it was a subject
about which I was still too broke to have a thing to say,
so I changed the subject and asked him
what kind of music he liked. He said, 'I loathe music.'
And I said, 'All music?' And he said—
he seemed very amused by himself but also
quite serious, 'Almost all music, almost all the time.'
and I said 'Beethoven?' And he said
'I loathe Beethoven, and I loathe Stravinsky, who loathed Beethoven.'''
*
"Later, in the night, we talked about it.
'It's feelings,' she said, laughing. 'He says
he doesn't want other people putting their feelings into him
any more than he wants,' and then she imitated
his silvery rich voice, 'them putting their organs
into me at great length and without my consent.'
And she rolled onto my chest and wiggled herself
into position and whispered in my ear,
'So I'll put my feelings in you, okay?'
humming it as if it were a little tune."
*
"Anyway, I was besotted. In that stage, you know,
when everything about her amazed me.
One time I looked in her underwear drawer.
She had eight pair of orange panties
and one pair that was sort of lemon yellow, none of them
very new. So that was something
to think about. What kind of woman
basically wears only orange panties."
*
"She had the most beautiful neck on earth.
A swan's neck. When we made love, in those first weeks,
in my grubby little graduate student bed-sit,
I'd weep afterward from gratitude while she smoked
and then we'd walk along the embankment to look at the lights
just coming on—it was midsummer—and then we'd eat something
at an Indian place and I'd watch her put forkfuls of curry
into that soft mouth I'd been kissing. It was still
just faintly light at midnight and I'd walk her home
and the wind would be coming up on the river."
*
"In theory she was only part-time at Amnesty
but by fall she was there every night, later and later.
She just got to be obsessed. Political torture, mostly.
Abu Ghraib, the photographs. She had every one of them.
And photographs of the hands of some Iranian feminist journalist
that the police had taken pliers to. And Africa,
of course, Darfur, starvation, genital mutilation.
The whole starter kit of anguished causes."
*
"I'd wake up in the night
and not hear her sleeper's breathing
and turn toward her and she'd be looking at me,
wide-eyed, and say, as if we were in the middle of a conversation,
'Do you know what the report said? It said
she had been raped multiple times and that she died
of one strong blow—they call it blunt trauma—
to the back of her head,
but she also had twenty-seven hairline fractures
to the skull, so they think the interrogation
went on for some time.'''
*
"—So I said, 'Yes, I can tell you exactly
what I want.' She had her head propped up on one elbow,
she was so beautiful, her hair
that Botticellian copper. 'Look,' I said,
'I know the world is an awful place, but I would like,
some night, to make love or walk along the river
without having to talk about George fucking Bush or
Tony fucking Blair.' I picked up her hand.
'You bite your fingernails raw.
You should quit smoking. You're entitled, we're entitled
to a little happiness.' She looked at me,
coolly, and gave me a perfunctory kiss
on the neck and said, 'You sound like my mother.'''
*
"We were at a party and she introduced me
to one of her colleagues, tall girl, auburn hair,
absolutely white skin. After she walked away,
I said, 'A wan English beauty.' I was really thinking
that she was inside all day breathing secondhand smoke
and saving the world. And she looked at me
for a long time, thoughtfully, and said,
'Not really. She has lymphoma.'
I think that was the beginning of the end.
I wasn't being callow, I just didn't know."
*
"Another night she said, 'Do you know
what our countrymen are thinking about right now?
Football matches.' 'Games,' I said. She shook her head.
'The drones in Afghanistan? Yesterday they bombed a wedding.
It killed sixty people, eighteen children. I don't know
how people live, I don't know how
they get up in the morning.'"
*
"So she took the job in Harare and I got ready
to come back to Berkeley, and we said we'd be in touch
by e-mail and that I might come out in the summer
and we'd see how it went. The last night
I was the one who woke up. She was sleeping soundly,
her face adorably squinched up by the pillow,
a little saliva—the English word spittle came to mind—
a tiny filament of it connecting the corner of her mouth
to the pillow. She looked so peaceful."
*
"In the last week we went to hear a friend
perform some music of Benjamin Britten.
I had been in the library finishing up, ploughing
through the back issues of The Criterion and noticing
again that neither Eliot nor any of the others
seemed to have had a clue to the coming horror.
She was sitting beside me and I looked at her hands
in her lap. Her beautiful hands. And I thought about
the way she was carrying the whole of the world's violence
and cruelty in her body, or trying to, because
she thought the rest of us couldn't or wouldn't.
Our friend was bowing away, a series of high, sweet,
climbing and keening notes, and that line of Eliot's
from The Wasteland came into my head:
'This music crept by me upon the waters.'''
By Robert Hass
what an incredible piece.
take the time to read this.
Some of David's Story
"That first time I met her, at the party, she said,
'I have an English father and an American mother
and I went to school in London and Providence, Rhode Island,
and at some point I had to choose,
so I moved back to London and became the sort of person
who says puh-son instead of purr-son.'
For the first person she had chosen an accent
halfway between the other two.
It was so elegant I fell in love on the spot. Later,
I understood that it was because I thought
that little verbal finesse meant
she had made herself up entirely.
I felt so much what I was and, you know,
that what I was was not that much,
so she just seemed breathtaking."
*
"Her neck was the thing, and that tangle of copper hair.
And, in those days, her laugh, the way
she moved through a room. Like Landor's line—
she was meandering gold, pellucid gold."
*
"Her father was a philosopher,
fairly eminent in that world, and the first time
I was there to dinner, they talked about California wines
in deference to me, I think, though it was a subject
about which I was still too broke to have a thing to say,
so I changed the subject and asked him
what kind of music he liked. He said, 'I loathe music.'
And I said, 'All music?' And he said—
he seemed very amused by himself but also
quite serious, 'Almost all music, almost all the time.'
and I said 'Beethoven?' And he said
'I loathe Beethoven, and I loathe Stravinsky, who loathed Beethoven.'''
*
"Later, in the night, we talked about it.
'It's feelings,' she said, laughing. 'He says
he doesn't want other people putting their feelings into him
any more than he wants,' and then she imitated
his silvery rich voice, 'them putting their organs
into me at great length and without my consent.'
And she rolled onto my chest and wiggled herself
into position and whispered in my ear,
'So I'll put my feelings in you, okay?'
humming it as if it were a little tune."
*
"Anyway, I was besotted. In that stage, you know,
when everything about her amazed me.
One time I looked in her underwear drawer.
She had eight pair of orange panties
and one pair that was sort of lemon yellow, none of them
very new. So that was something
to think about. What kind of woman
basically wears only orange panties."
*
"She had the most beautiful neck on earth.
A swan's neck. When we made love, in those first weeks,
in my grubby little graduate student bed-sit,
I'd weep afterward from gratitude while she smoked
and then we'd walk along the embankment to look at the lights
just coming on—it was midsummer—and then we'd eat something
at an Indian place and I'd watch her put forkfuls of curry
into that soft mouth I'd been kissing. It was still
just faintly light at midnight and I'd walk her home
and the wind would be coming up on the river."
*
"In theory she was only part-time at Amnesty
but by fall she was there every night, later and later.
She just got to be obsessed. Political torture, mostly.
Abu Ghraib, the photographs. She had every one of them.
And photographs of the hands of some Iranian feminist journalist
that the police had taken pliers to. And Africa,
of course, Darfur, starvation, genital mutilation.
The whole starter kit of anguished causes."
*
"I'd wake up in the night
and not hear her sleeper's breathing
and turn toward her and she'd be looking at me,
wide-eyed, and say, as if we were in the middle of a conversation,
'Do you know what the report said? It said
she had been raped multiple times and that she died
of one strong blow—they call it blunt trauma—
to the back of her head,
but she also had twenty-seven hairline fractures
to the skull, so they think the interrogation
went on for some time.'''
*
"—So I said, 'Yes, I can tell you exactly
what I want.' She had her head propped up on one elbow,
she was so beautiful, her hair
that Botticellian copper. 'Look,' I said,
'I know the world is an awful place, but I would like,
some night, to make love or walk along the river
without having to talk about George fucking Bush or
Tony fucking Blair.' I picked up her hand.
'You bite your fingernails raw.
You should quit smoking. You're entitled, we're entitled
to a little happiness.' She looked at me,
coolly, and gave me a perfunctory kiss
on the neck and said, 'You sound like my mother.'''
*
"We were at a party and she introduced me
to one of her colleagues, tall girl, auburn hair,
absolutely white skin. After she walked away,
I said, 'A wan English beauty.' I was really thinking
that she was inside all day breathing secondhand smoke
and saving the world. And she looked at me
for a long time, thoughtfully, and said,
'Not really. She has lymphoma.'
I think that was the beginning of the end.
I wasn't being callow, I just didn't know."
*
"Another night she said, 'Do you know
what our countrymen are thinking about right now?
Football matches.' 'Games,' I said. She shook her head.
'The drones in Afghanistan? Yesterday they bombed a wedding.
It killed sixty people, eighteen children. I don't know
how people live, I don't know how
they get up in the morning.'"
*
"So she took the job in Harare and I got ready
to come back to Berkeley, and we said we'd be in touch
by e-mail and that I might come out in the summer
and we'd see how it went. The last night
I was the one who woke up. She was sleeping soundly,
her face adorably squinched up by the pillow,
a little saliva—the English word spittle came to mind—
a tiny filament of it connecting the corner of her mouth
to the pillow. She looked so peaceful."
*
"In the last week we went to hear a friend
perform some music of Benjamin Britten.
I had been in the library finishing up, ploughing
through the back issues of The Criterion and noticing
again that neither Eliot nor any of the others
seemed to have had a clue to the coming horror.
She was sitting beside me and I looked at her hands
in her lap. Her beautiful hands. And I thought about
the way she was carrying the whole of the world's violence
and cruelty in her body, or trying to, because
she thought the rest of us couldn't or wouldn't.
Our friend was bowing away, a series of high, sweet,
climbing and keening notes, and that line of Eliot's
from The Wasteland came into my head:
'This music crept by me upon the waters.'''
By Robert Hass
3.29.2010
for my mother on her 66th birthday
Acceptance Speech
I want to thank my mother for the hurried mornings in pre-dawn darkness
I learned that its always worth taking the time to slice the apple
that you should run through the checklist twice
that the shine on your shoes matters
I want to thank my mother for nights in the smoke-stale air under stiff sheets at third rate hotels
I learned that there is always a better room and you should ask for it
that underwear can be washed in a sink
that windows should be able to open
I want to thank my mother for the hours by a ring in the bone cold, or mosquito buzzing heat
I learned that you should always be prepared for rain
that you want someone standing in your corner to whisper a warning before you face those who will judge you.
And you’re lucky if that person is your mother.
3.26.2010
an open letter to my cubicle
you have to check this out. right now. hysterical letters written by pissed off people to people or entities who are likely to never respond. the top one on the infuriating dancing of aging hippies is my favorite, read it here.
or for example, this one, which hits home:
February 1, 2010
Dear Cubicle,
It's fun when an artist shocks you with their prescience. I believe it was you that Henry David Thoreau foresaw when he said that "the mass of men live lives of quiet desperation." I used to tell myself that I would never live a life of quiet desperation; I would scream my desperation for everyone to hear. But you've tamed me. When I'm with you my pupils dilate, my breath falls into calm repetition and my spirit bleeds.
There is not one thing about you that I like. Your steel drawers are joyless, your calendar taunts me and your walls are shabby. Could there be a lazier expression of light than the harsh glow from that buzzing fluorescent tube you keep encased in a plastic grate? I'm Irish for crying out loud. My skin reflects light poorly enough under soft conditions, beneath you I look like a milk-filled jellyfish.
The decorum that my co-workers have hung about your entrance is misguided and cruel. That picture of San Antonio Spurs guard Manu Ginobli doesn't look anything like me. While I do have dark hair, dark eyebrows and perennial two day stubble, I had hoped that this made me look more like Matthew Fox from Lost than a balding Argentinean. And I'm sure it was good fun for them to pin my quote from last week's happy hour on your outside wall, but when I said that "the decade since I graduated college has been nothing but bad news and depressing life lessons," it was uttered in a state of honest sadness, it was not meant to be ironic, hyperbolic or funny in any way.
There are a couple of small comforts that have made short clips of my time with you at least tolerable. I enjoy reading my page-a-day Onion desk calendar, although it was such a crutch against your dogged grind that I burned through the full year's worth of entries in early March. I'm thankful that a cleaning crew comes by dark of night to empty my rubber trash can and sweep up all the crumbs and hairs that accumulate in my keyboard, although I'm certain that they're stealing my mints.
If I hate you so much, why do I spend the waking hours of my prime locked in this terrible relationship? Nobody is forcing me to return to you everyday, it's become a conditioned response to waking up. What if I stopped going? What if I up and left? I could become a Park Ranger and spend my time in the outdoors. Surely I'm qualified to be a Park Ranger, with minimal training I could become quite skilled at telling people to ask their dogs to quiet down. Or I could double-down and dig my way out. If I spent my nights and weekends with you they'd move me into that office with the blinds and the fake plant. I bet I could be happy in that office, gazing upon the landscape print that hangs above my desk and doesn't offend anyone. From there I could look out at you through my glass wall. I could take your new prisoner out to lunch and tell them everything. I'd tell them about how you are, and I'd tell them about what you do.
Sincerely,
Jonathan Easley
or for example, this one, which hits home:
February 1, 2010
Dear Cubicle,
It's fun when an artist shocks you with their prescience. I believe it was you that Henry David Thoreau foresaw when he said that "the mass of men live lives of quiet desperation." I used to tell myself that I would never live a life of quiet desperation; I would scream my desperation for everyone to hear. But you've tamed me. When I'm with you my pupils dilate, my breath falls into calm repetition and my spirit bleeds.
There is not one thing about you that I like. Your steel drawers are joyless, your calendar taunts me and your walls are shabby. Could there be a lazier expression of light than the harsh glow from that buzzing fluorescent tube you keep encased in a plastic grate? I'm Irish for crying out loud. My skin reflects light poorly enough under soft conditions, beneath you I look like a milk-filled jellyfish.
The decorum that my co-workers have hung about your entrance is misguided and cruel. That picture of San Antonio Spurs guard Manu Ginobli doesn't look anything like me. While I do have dark hair, dark eyebrows and perennial two day stubble, I had hoped that this made me look more like Matthew Fox from Lost than a balding Argentinean. And I'm sure it was good fun for them to pin my quote from last week's happy hour on your outside wall, but when I said that "the decade since I graduated college has been nothing but bad news and depressing life lessons," it was uttered in a state of honest sadness, it was not meant to be ironic, hyperbolic or funny in any way.
There are a couple of small comforts that have made short clips of my time with you at least tolerable. I enjoy reading my page-a-day Onion desk calendar, although it was such a crutch against your dogged grind that I burned through the full year's worth of entries in early March. I'm thankful that a cleaning crew comes by dark of night to empty my rubber trash can and sweep up all the crumbs and hairs that accumulate in my keyboard, although I'm certain that they're stealing my mints.
If I hate you so much, why do I spend the waking hours of my prime locked in this terrible relationship? Nobody is forcing me to return to you everyday, it's become a conditioned response to waking up. What if I stopped going? What if I up and left? I could become a Park Ranger and spend my time in the outdoors. Surely I'm qualified to be a Park Ranger, with minimal training I could become quite skilled at telling people to ask their dogs to quiet down. Or I could double-down and dig my way out. If I spent my nights and weekends with you they'd move me into that office with the blinds and the fake plant. I bet I could be happy in that office, gazing upon the landscape print that hangs above my desk and doesn't offend anyone. From there I could look out at you through my glass wall. I could take your new prisoner out to lunch and tell them everything. I'd tell them about how you are, and I'd tell them about what you do.
Sincerely,
Jonathan Easley
taste pain, roll it on my tongue, it’s good
my idea of a welcome spring poem. even though its friggin snowing out.
Daffodils
The day the war against Iraq begins
I’m photographing the yellow daffodils
With their outstretched arms and ruffled cups
Blowing in the wind of Jesus Green
Edging the lush grassy moving river
Along with the swans and ducks
Under a soft March Cambridge sky
Embellishing the earth like a hand
Starting to illustrate a children’s book
Where people in light clothes come out
To play, to frisk and run about
With their lovers, friends, animals, and children
As down every stony backroad of history
They’ve always done in the peaceful springs
—Which in a sense is also hell because
The daffodils do look as if they dance
And make some of us in the park want to dance
And breathe deeply and I know that
Being able to eat and incorporate beauty like this
I am privileged and by that token can
Taste pain, roll it on my tongue, it’s good
The cruel wars are good the stupidity is good,
The primates hiding in their caves are very good,
They do their best, which explains poetry.
What explains poetry is that life is hard
But better than the alternatives,
The no and the nothing. Look at this light
And color, a splash of brilliant yellow
Punctuating an emerald text, white swans
And mottled brown ducks floating quietly along
Whole and alive, like an untorn language
That lacks nothing, that excludes
Nothing. Period. Don’t you think
It is our business to defend it
Even the day our masters start a war?
To defend the day we see the daffodils?
-Alicia Ostriker
Daffodils
The day the war against Iraq begins
I’m photographing the yellow daffodils
With their outstretched arms and ruffled cups
Blowing in the wind of Jesus Green
Edging the lush grassy moving river
Along with the swans and ducks
Under a soft March Cambridge sky
Embellishing the earth like a hand
Starting to illustrate a children’s book
Where people in light clothes come out
To play, to frisk and run about
With their lovers, friends, animals, and children
As down every stony backroad of history
They’ve always done in the peaceful springs
—Which in a sense is also hell because
The daffodils do look as if they dance
And make some of us in the park want to dance
And breathe deeply and I know that
Being able to eat and incorporate beauty like this
I am privileged and by that token can
Taste pain, roll it on my tongue, it’s good
The cruel wars are good the stupidity is good,
The primates hiding in their caves are very good,
They do their best, which explains poetry.
What explains poetry is that life is hard
But better than the alternatives,
The no and the nothing. Look at this light
And color, a splash of brilliant yellow
Punctuating an emerald text, white swans
And mottled brown ducks floating quietly along
Whole and alive, like an untorn language
That lacks nothing, that excludes
Nothing. Period. Don’t you think
It is our business to defend it
Even the day our masters start a war?
To defend the day we see the daffodils?
-Alicia Ostriker
3.25.2010
joe purdy wrote a song about me. clearly.
found this by searching for a video of "why do i" also by purdy. great song. couldnt find a vid but you should go get it.
3.23.2010
i'm afraid the way i'll miss you will be this obvious.
Emptying Town
I want to erase your footprints
from my walls. Each pillow
is thick with your reasons. Omens
fill the sidewalk below my window: a woman
in a party hat, clinging
to a tin-foil balloon. Shadows
creep slowly across the tar, someone yells, "Stop!"
and I close my eyes. I can't watch
as this town slowly empties, leaving me
strung between bon-voyages, like so many clothes
on a line, the white handkerchief
stuck in my throat. You know the way Jesus
rips open his shirt
to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny,
the way he points to it. I'm afraid
the way I'll miss you will be this obvious.
I have a friend who everyone warns me
is dangerous, he hides
bloody images of Jesus
around my house, for me to find
when I come home; Jesus
behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked
into the mirror. He wants to save me
but we disagree from what. My version of hell
is someone ripping open his shirt
and saying, Look what I did for you. . .
by Nick Flynn
a poet i havent heard from in a little bit but who i loved, loved, in college. good to be reminded.
I want to erase your footprints
from my walls. Each pillow
is thick with your reasons. Omens
fill the sidewalk below my window: a woman
in a party hat, clinging
to a tin-foil balloon. Shadows
creep slowly across the tar, someone yells, "Stop!"
and I close my eyes. I can't watch
as this town slowly empties, leaving me
strung between bon-voyages, like so many clothes
on a line, the white handkerchief
stuck in my throat. You know the way Jesus
rips open his shirt
to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny,
the way he points to it. I'm afraid
the way I'll miss you will be this obvious.
I have a friend who everyone warns me
is dangerous, he hides
bloody images of Jesus
around my house, for me to find
when I come home; Jesus
behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked
into the mirror. He wants to save me
but we disagree from what. My version of hell
is someone ripping open his shirt
and saying, Look what I did for you. . .
by Nick Flynn
a poet i havent heard from in a little bit but who i loved, loved, in college. good to be reminded.
I’d make every great mistake I could and earn this lovely moment
Tatyana
She leaves the room. Onegin writhes
On stage, ashamed of his emotion.
He scorned her as a young girl.
Now he's mad about her! But she's
Married, rich, so stern and cold. . .
I lean forward in my opera seat.
There goes me. And isn’t that
Every man I loved in vain?
The cast bows to wild applause.
Our Tatyana smiles, steps forward
To catch a bouquet of red roses.
I button my coat, grab my purse,
And make my slow way down the aisle
Of well-dressed, gray-haired couples
Watching their steps with downcast eyes.
I bet I'm not alone in wishing
I could go back in time, and break
A few cold hearts that broke mine
With all my hard won understanding
Of the game of love, its rules
And stratagems, and power plays.
Then through the open lobby doors
Where the crowd hesitates, tying
Scarves or pulling on wool gloves,
I see the promised snow’s begun
And someone’s whistling an aria
From the first act. A sweet joy
Rushes through me. No, of course
I’d fall in love the same way.
I’d make every great mistake
I could, and earn this lovely moment
Walking home through fresh snow
My head full of unsingable music,
Remembering this one and that one
Who made me feel by feeling nothing.
by Maura Stanton
an interview about the poem here
She leaves the room. Onegin writhes
On stage, ashamed of his emotion.
He scorned her as a young girl.
Now he's mad about her! But she's
Married, rich, so stern and cold. . .
I lean forward in my opera seat.
There goes me. And isn’t that
Every man I loved in vain?
The cast bows to wild applause.
Our Tatyana smiles, steps forward
To catch a bouquet of red roses.
I button my coat, grab my purse,
And make my slow way down the aisle
Of well-dressed, gray-haired couples
Watching their steps with downcast eyes.
I bet I'm not alone in wishing
I could go back in time, and break
A few cold hearts that broke mine
With all my hard won understanding
Of the game of love, its rules
And stratagems, and power plays.
Then through the open lobby doors
Where the crowd hesitates, tying
Scarves or pulling on wool gloves,
I see the promised snow’s begun
And someone’s whistling an aria
From the first act. A sweet joy
Rushes through me. No, of course
I’d fall in love the same way.
I’d make every great mistake
I could, and earn this lovely moment
Walking home through fresh snow
My head full of unsingable music,
Remembering this one and that one
Who made me feel by feeling nothing.
by Maura Stanton
an interview about the poem here
love loving so much after that
Feeling highly negative today and this poem i just came across feels just right. Also, I like that doilies follow nazis.
The Pleasures of Hating
I hate Mozart. Hate him with that healthy
pleasure one feels when exasperation has
crescendoed, when lungs, heart, throat,
and voice explode at once: I hate that! —
there's bliss in this, rapture. My shrink
tried to disabuse me, convinced I use Amadeus
as a prop: Think further, your father perhaps?
I won't go back, think of the shrink
with a powdered wig, pinched lips, mole:
a transference, he'd say, a relapse: so be it.
I hate broccoli, chain saws, patchouli, bra—
clasps that draw dents in your back, roadblocks,
men in black kneesocks, sandals and shorts—
I love hating that. Loathe stickers on tomatoes,
jerky, deconstruction, nazis, doilies. I delight
in detesting. And love loving so much after that.
by Laure-Anne Bosselaar
The Pleasures of Hating
I hate Mozart. Hate him with that healthy
pleasure one feels when exasperation has
crescendoed, when lungs, heart, throat,
and voice explode at once: I hate that! —
there's bliss in this, rapture. My shrink
tried to disabuse me, convinced I use Amadeus
as a prop: Think further, your father perhaps?
I won't go back, think of the shrink
with a powdered wig, pinched lips, mole:
a transference, he'd say, a relapse: so be it.
I hate broccoli, chain saws, patchouli, bra—
clasps that draw dents in your back, roadblocks,
men in black kneesocks, sandals and shorts—
I love hating that. Loathe stickers on tomatoes,
jerky, deconstruction, nazis, doilies. I delight
in detesting. And love loving so much after that.
by Laure-Anne Bosselaar
3.21.2010
the air as an invisibility draped with sounds
last night felt like the first night of the next phase. spring. rebirth. reinvention. rewhatever.
All Night Long
The First warm evening in spring—the evening
on which you no longer feel the air's
temperature and are only aware
of it as an invisibility draped
with sounds: laughter from open windows,
the idle of cars pausing at the curb,
abdominal wails presaging a cat
fight in some dark, disputed corner; draped
with smells: through a side door propped ajar fish
hitting hot oil, dust or mold from the pit
of a deserted construction site, the soil
in front gardens after rain, released
and crumbled from beneath by the numberless
green thumbs of spring's long reach up
out of the ground. A young man waits on the stoop
of a six-floor walkup with the posture
of someone who expects to wait
for a long time. What you imagine to be
his earthly possessions are beside him
in a shopping cart, along with a roll
of rubber foam, neatly tied. You imagine
he had come knowing there will be no bed,
only floor space in one of the apartments
above. You can't imagine more than this, so you
walk up the fading street to where the first
crocuses are out, each one a small, violet-shuttered
hesitation imbued with its own brevity,
knowing neither happiness nor grief.
by Anne Pierson Wiese
All Night Long
The First warm evening in spring—the evening
on which you no longer feel the air's
temperature and are only aware
of it as an invisibility draped
with sounds: laughter from open windows,
the idle of cars pausing at the curb,
abdominal wails presaging a cat
fight in some dark, disputed corner; draped
with smells: through a side door propped ajar fish
hitting hot oil, dust or mold from the pit
of a deserted construction site, the soil
in front gardens after rain, released
and crumbled from beneath by the numberless
green thumbs of spring's long reach up
out of the ground. A young man waits on the stoop
of a six-floor walkup with the posture
of someone who expects to wait
for a long time. What you imagine to be
his earthly possessions are beside him
in a shopping cart, along with a roll
of rubber foam, neatly tied. You imagine
he had come knowing there will be no bed,
only floor space in one of the apartments
above. You can't imagine more than this, so you
walk up the fading street to where the first
crocuses are out, each one a small, violet-shuttered
hesitation imbued with its own brevity,
knowing neither happiness nor grief.
by Anne Pierson Wiese
3.19.2010
homemade oreos
happening in my life, possibly the specialty item of my cafeplace. possibly attempting them this weekend. watch out.
COOKIES
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted
3/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips, melted
1 egg
1 1/2 cups flour
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1. In a medium bowl, whisk the butter and the sugar until combined. Whisk in the vanilla and melted chocolate. Add the egg and stir until well blended.
2. In another bowl, combine flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt. Stir to blend them. Using a wooden spoon, stir the flour mixture into the chocolate mixture. The finished dough should feel like Play-Doh. Cover the dough with plastic, and set aside for 1 hour or until firm.
3. Place the dough on a long sheet of parchment paper. Use your hands to shape it into a rough log, about 10 inches long and 2 1/2 inches in diameter. Place the log at the edge of the parchment. Roll the parchment around the log. With your hands on the paper, roll the dough into a tighter log, keeping the diameter the same.
4. Refrigerate the dough for at least 2 hours, or until it is firm enough to slice without crumbling
5. Set the oven at 325 degrees. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper.
6. Remove the dough from the paper. Cut the log into 32 slices, each a quarter-inch. Set them on the baking sheets 1 inch apart.
7. Bake the cookies for 20 to 25 minutes, checking them often after 15 minutes, or until they are firm when touched in the center.
8. Cool completely on the sheets.
allow 1 hour for the dough to firm before shaping, then several more hours for it to chill before slicing. You can refrigerate the dough for up to 1 week or freeze it for 1 month
FILLING
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 2/3 cup confectioners’ sugar, sifted
1 tablespoon milk
Pinch salt
1. In the bowl of an electric mixer, beat the butter on low speed for half a minute. Add the vanilla and confectioners sugar and beat until smooth
2. Beat in the milk and salt. The filling will look and feel like spackle
3. Place 1 tablespoon of filling on the flat side of 16 cookies. Press the remaining 16 cookies on the filling, flat sides against the cream, to evenly distribute the filling.
4. Store in an airtight container for up to 3 days.
COOKIES
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted
3/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips, melted
1 egg
1 1/2 cups flour
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1. In a medium bowl, whisk the butter and the sugar until combined. Whisk in the vanilla and melted chocolate. Add the egg and stir until well blended.
2. In another bowl, combine flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt. Stir to blend them. Using a wooden spoon, stir the flour mixture into the chocolate mixture. The finished dough should feel like Play-Doh. Cover the dough with plastic, and set aside for 1 hour or until firm.
3. Place the dough on a long sheet of parchment paper. Use your hands to shape it into a rough log, about 10 inches long and 2 1/2 inches in diameter. Place the log at the edge of the parchment. Roll the parchment around the log. With your hands on the paper, roll the dough into a tighter log, keeping the diameter the same.
4. Refrigerate the dough for at least 2 hours, or until it is firm enough to slice without crumbling
5. Set the oven at 325 degrees. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper.
6. Remove the dough from the paper. Cut the log into 32 slices, each a quarter-inch. Set them on the baking sheets 1 inch apart.
7. Bake the cookies for 20 to 25 minutes, checking them often after 15 minutes, or until they are firm when touched in the center.
8. Cool completely on the sheets.
allow 1 hour for the dough to firm before shaping, then several more hours for it to chill before slicing. You can refrigerate the dough for up to 1 week or freeze it for 1 month
FILLING
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 2/3 cup confectioners’ sugar, sifted
1 tablespoon milk
Pinch salt
1. In the bowl of an electric mixer, beat the butter on low speed for half a minute. Add the vanilla and confectioners sugar and beat until smooth
2. Beat in the milk and salt. The filling will look and feel like spackle
3. Place 1 tablespoon of filling on the flat side of 16 cookies. Press the remaining 16 cookies on the filling, flat sides against the cream, to evenly distribute the filling.
4. Store in an airtight container for up to 3 days.
like watching a fern unfurl
had an impossible discussion about death and loss and forever last night. and then this morning thought of this poem id seen a while ago. if i ever have to write about death, i hope it is this direct. this raw. this unrelenting.
Slowly
I watched a snake once, swallow a rabbit.
Fourth grade, the reptile zoo
the rabbit stiff, nose in, bits of litter stuck to its fur,
its head clenched in the wide
jaws of the snake, the snake
sucking it down its long throat.
All throat that snake—I couldn’t tell
where the throat ended, the body
began. I remember the glass
case, the way that snake
took its time (all the girls, groaning, shrieking
but weren’t we amazed, fascinated,
saying we couldn’t look, but looking, weren’t we
held there, weren’t we
imagining—what were we imagining?)
Mrs. Paterson urged us to move on girls,
but we couldn’t move. It was like
watching a fern unfurl, a minute
hand move across a clock. I didn’t know why
that snake didn’t choke, the rabbit never
moved, how the jaws kept opening
wider, sucking it down, just so
I am taking this in, slowly,
taking it into my body:
this grief. How slow
the body is to realize.
You are never coming back.
by donna masini
Slowly
I watched a snake once, swallow a rabbit.
Fourth grade, the reptile zoo
the rabbit stiff, nose in, bits of litter stuck to its fur,
its head clenched in the wide
jaws of the snake, the snake
sucking it down its long throat.
All throat that snake—I couldn’t tell
where the throat ended, the body
began. I remember the glass
case, the way that snake
took its time (all the girls, groaning, shrieking
but weren’t we amazed, fascinated,
saying we couldn’t look, but looking, weren’t we
held there, weren’t we
imagining—what were we imagining?)
Mrs. Paterson urged us to move on girls,
but we couldn’t move. It was like
watching a fern unfurl, a minute
hand move across a clock. I didn’t know why
that snake didn’t choke, the rabbit never
moved, how the jaws kept opening
wider, sucking it down, just so
I am taking this in, slowly,
taking it into my body:
this grief. How slow
the body is to realize.
You are never coming back.
by donna masini
3.18.2010
Outlook meeting invite sent on march 18, subject: talk with daisy
Body of email:
Hi Thekla :)
Does this time work for you to have a chat, either in the conference room or taking a walk? I know it’s Friday and will naturally be insanely busy and I actually think Torrey and the team want to do lunch tomorrow at 1 so if you would prefer we can wait until the end of the day and talk then. Or earlier. You let me know. It isn’t “urgent” but I would like to talk to you alone tomorrow if possible.
Thank you Thekla...
It has begun.
Hi Thekla :)
Does this time work for you to have a chat, either in the conference room or taking a walk? I know it’s Friday and will naturally be insanely busy and I actually think Torrey and the team want to do lunch tomorrow at 1 so if you would prefer we can wait until the end of the day and talk then. Or earlier. You let me know. It isn’t “urgent” but I would like to talk to you alone tomorrow if possible.
Thank you Thekla...
It has begun.
we are undressing for a swim
The Name of a Fish
If winter is a house then summer is a window
in the bedroom of that house. Sorrow is a river
behind the house and happiness is the name
of a fish who swims downstream. The unborn child
who plays the fragrant garden is named Mavis:
her red hair is made of future and her sleek feet
are wet with dreams. The cat who naps
in the bedroom has his paws in the sun of summer
and his tail in the moonlight of change. You and I
spend years walking up and down the dusty stairs
of the house. Sometimes we stand in the bedroom
and the cat walks towards us like a message.
Sometimes we pick dandelions from the garden
and watch the white heads blow open
in our hands. We are learning to fish in the river
of sorrow; we are undressing for a swim.
by Faith Shearin
really loving this poet lately, featured heavily on TWA, read more on her site here
If winter is a house then summer is a window
in the bedroom of that house. Sorrow is a river
behind the house and happiness is the name
of a fish who swims downstream. The unborn child
who plays the fragrant garden is named Mavis:
her red hair is made of future and her sleek feet
are wet with dreams. The cat who naps
in the bedroom has his paws in the sun of summer
and his tail in the moonlight of change. You and I
spend years walking up and down the dusty stairs
of the house. Sometimes we stand in the bedroom
and the cat walks towards us like a message.
Sometimes we pick dandelions from the garden
and watch the white heads blow open
in our hands. We are learning to fish in the river
of sorrow; we are undressing for a swim.
by Faith Shearin
really loving this poet lately, featured heavily on TWA, read more on her site here
3.17.2010
The theft that could have happened doesn't
after I left the office yesterday a man pulled a knife on the T.
He was enormous, a looming presence, wearing a hood pulled up over his head under a long trench coat, with dark leather gloves on (it wasnt that cold) and big dark sunglasses (on the t, at night) and he was carrying an empty red milk crate, of all things.
if you could have patched together the cliche of a suspicious looking person, he would have been the result. and when he got on the T behind me i felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. but if i got off the T every time someone slightly deranged got on id never get anywhere.
its boston.
but this was different. and i knew it. i just tried to trust that things are almost always ok.
there was no question he was ominous. but not menacing, he seemed focused, quiet, deliberate as he began moving away from me down the length of the car to the m iddle doors. and then he got off. and i watched him walk back up the platform towards me and got back on again right next to me, same door hed originally used. and then again, using the crate to shove the packed people out of his way, he moved away from me down the length of the car as we moved betwen stops and when the doors opened he got off and walked back to the front, and boarded. this happened three times and on the third time we were shoulder to... shoulder, though he was significantly taller than me, and he began to move again, past the same people who by now were noticing this strange man's strange behavior, and he bumped the man standing next to me to get him to move, a young professional type with his girlfriend holding his arm, who goes, 'hey man, I can't move, there's a door right there' and without saying a word the man pulled a switch blade out of his trench coat pocket and snapped it open.
It was right next to my face. aimed at the young guy, but the blade itself was no less than a foot from me. And for a moment no one moved and I wasn't able to speak so I reached around and started frantically tapping the driver and the driver goes 'WHAT?' which then made the guy with the knife turn towards me, saw me tapping the driver, gave me a look through his sunglasses that i dreamt about on repeat all night, and then shoved his way out the door and ran off the platform.
at which point the guy who had the knife pulled on him started screaming 'he has a knife' and his girlfriend became hysterical and then there was mass melee.
i was so grateful to sleep in strong arms last night, so desperately grateful. but i woke up exhausted from dreams of running. and only todays poem from the writers almanac-one more reason to believe that garrison keillor is in my brain- has given me back my breath. applicable not just to having knives pulled on you in the safest part of boston, but to life in general.
Trust
It's like so many other things in life
to which you must say no or yes.
So you take your car to the new mechanic.
Sometimes the best thing to do is trust.
The package left with the disreputable-looking
clerk, the check gulped by the night deposit,
the envelope passed by dozens of strangers—
all show up at their intended destinations.
The theft that could have happened doesn't.
Wind finally gets where it was going
through the snowy trees, and the river, even
when frozen, arrives at the right place.
And sometimes you sense how faithfully your life
is delivered, even though you can't read the address.
By Thomas R. Smith
read more here
He was enormous, a looming presence, wearing a hood pulled up over his head under a long trench coat, with dark leather gloves on (it wasnt that cold) and big dark sunglasses (on the t, at night) and he was carrying an empty red milk crate, of all things.
if you could have patched together the cliche of a suspicious looking person, he would have been the result. and when he got on the T behind me i felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. but if i got off the T every time someone slightly deranged got on id never get anywhere.
its boston.
but this was different. and i knew it. i just tried to trust that things are almost always ok.
there was no question he was ominous. but not menacing, he seemed focused, quiet, deliberate as he began moving away from me down the length of the car to the m iddle doors. and then he got off. and i watched him walk back up the platform towards me and got back on again right next to me, same door hed originally used. and then again, using the crate to shove the packed people out of his way, he moved away from me down the length of the car as we moved betwen stops and when the doors opened he got off and walked back to the front, and boarded. this happened three times and on the third time we were shoulder to... shoulder, though he was significantly taller than me, and he began to move again, past the same people who by now were noticing this strange man's strange behavior, and he bumped the man standing next to me to get him to move, a young professional type with his girlfriend holding his arm, who goes, 'hey man, I can't move, there's a door right there' and without saying a word the man pulled a switch blade out of his trench coat pocket and snapped it open.
It was right next to my face. aimed at the young guy, but the blade itself was no less than a foot from me. And for a moment no one moved and I wasn't able to speak so I reached around and started frantically tapping the driver and the driver goes 'WHAT?' which then made the guy with the knife turn towards me, saw me tapping the driver, gave me a look through his sunglasses that i dreamt about on repeat all night, and then shoved his way out the door and ran off the platform.
at which point the guy who had the knife pulled on him started screaming 'he has a knife' and his girlfriend became hysterical and then there was mass melee.
i was so grateful to sleep in strong arms last night, so desperately grateful. but i woke up exhausted from dreams of running. and only todays poem from the writers almanac-one more reason to believe that garrison keillor is in my brain- has given me back my breath. applicable not just to having knives pulled on you in the safest part of boston, but to life in general.
Trust
It's like so many other things in life
to which you must say no or yes.
So you take your car to the new mechanic.
Sometimes the best thing to do is trust.
The package left with the disreputable-looking
clerk, the check gulped by the night deposit,
the envelope passed by dozens of strangers—
all show up at their intended destinations.
The theft that could have happened doesn't.
Wind finally gets where it was going
through the snowy trees, and the river, even
when frozen, arrives at the right place.
And sometimes you sense how faithfully your life
is delivered, even though you can't read the address.
By Thomas R. Smith
read more here
i am your water, i am your air
wow. check this out. let it load and then when the line appears, move your mouse. experiential music
3.16.2010
the days i love aren't mine, though if i get inside one, i stay
What Isn’t Mine
—shibui
Near a house in the canyon
where the meadow dips
and open-range cattle
loiter on the road,
a sign insists
COWS NOT MINE.
We used to laugh
and start to name other things
not ours: the rock,
the bighorn sheep, the pines,
the river.
You are not mine,
though I bend my life
to you. Our daughters
are not mine, not ours,
not owned. The days I love
aren’t mine, though
if I get inside one, I stay.
Not mine the mountains
that shore my seeing,
their snow, the clouds
they catch and release.
When I was younger, drinking sky
without aftertaste, I thought,
“all of it—mine,”
and it was. All
my “borrowed view,”
the Japanese might say
in a language
with so many words
for beauty—one that’s full
of time.
by veronica patterson
read more here
—shibui
Near a house in the canyon
where the meadow dips
and open-range cattle
loiter on the road,
a sign insists
COWS NOT MINE.
We used to laugh
and start to name other things
not ours: the rock,
the bighorn sheep, the pines,
the river.
You are not mine,
though I bend my life
to you. Our daughters
are not mine, not ours,
not owned. The days I love
aren’t mine, though
if I get inside one, I stay.
Not mine the mountains
that shore my seeing,
their snow, the clouds
they catch and release.
When I was younger, drinking sky
without aftertaste, I thought,
“all of it—mine,”
and it was. All
my “borrowed view,”
the Japanese might say
in a language
with so many words
for beauty—one that’s full
of time.
by veronica patterson
read more here
3.12.2010
on grabbing life by the beans:
The other night i started a conversation with my love that i frankly wasnt ready to have. the question posed was: what are the reasons for NOT going to italy. not for a vacation. but in life. to try to have a life, for some period of time, in a place weve both wanted to go, specifically the amalfi coast. so we're sitting at my wee little kitchen table on stools dipping pieces of cheddar into almond butter and calling it dinner(just one reason i love him is his unabashed creative consumption of nut butters) trying to figure out what is stopping us from pursuing a version of heaven. it seemed crazy. i tried to be realistic. money (but it could be worked around) jobs (but wed be happy doing anything and anything could be found) visas (but those could be attained somehow)... he kinda had me.
but for whatever square reasons, i balked. blame it on the taurus in me. i couldnt imagine packing a bag and getting off in fiumicino airport with no idea where or what or how or whether it was legal. i actually couldnt maintain eye contact with him i was so overwhelmed.
and im regretting it now. so much. because what i was forgetting is that we would be together. i always forget this. and not just with him, with everyone in my life. i see everything i do as being alone, every challenge i face i imagine myself being completely alone as i face it. and im not. i have an enormous web of supportive friends and family and even if theyre not WITH me, theyre with me. and if i forget that then so much seems too big to plan or manage. meanwhile this idea is maybe the most beautiful suggestion ive ever heard. so beautiful its terrifying. i fear idealism. i hate hoping for the best and ending up with something less than that, or, worse than disappointing myself, disappointing him. what if we go to the best place on earth in ideal conditions, together, and that doesnt actually make him happy? what if we pursue happiness in its purest form, and we dont find it?
so instead, what, im just going to sit in brookline and bitch about the weather working in a job that half makes me happy half makes the rest of the world happy and buy my half coffee half hot chocolates at the local 7/11? when i could be getting my morning shot of coffee standing up at a cafe bar living in a one room apt above a bakery or in a farm house on the amalfi coast harvesting, in a cafe, in a tourist agency or teaching or whatever but coming home to the person i see a future with each night? HEAVEN. or any variation of that = HEAVEN.
so screw the visa that i dont know how ill get, screw fear of uncertainty, fear of judgement, fear of landing on the other side of the rainbow in a heap with no money and no idea of where to go next. i want to pursue happiness if its a possibility.
and it is possible to do this in a way that isnt PURE risk, if we hopped around to a few farms for a little bit just spending money on our travel, learning about food, learning about farming, and then, at some point, maybe we would meet someone or find someplace or EAT something that made us think: we could DO this.
which brings me to the point which is that one of the reasons this conversation began was talking about foods that i havent found here that i remember from italy, wondering why, with everything thats imported, certain things havent taken off. and i was saying it would be so great to move to italy, learn all about xyz and then bring it back to the states, educate people here about a process, a flavor, something that would open people's minds. and mouths.
the item that started it all was a simple dip/spread made from white beans and green olive oil, pepper, salt, spread on toast... ugh. so good. and today i found a variation of this made by blending a can of white beans (drained) with lemon juice and peanut butter.
symbolism anyone?
i'm making it.
ill let you know.
White Bean and Nut Butter Dip
- a small can (400 g) of white beans
- 1 Tbsp peanut butter
- 1 Tbsp sesame butter (or just another of peanut)
- the juice of a lime
- 2 squirts of chili sauce
- 2 splashes of Worcestershire sauce
Drain the white beans, reserving the liquid for later. In a food processor, combine the white beans with the nut butters and the lime juice. Blend until smooth. If you find the mixture a bit too thick, add a little of the reserved bean liquid until the desired consistency is reached.
Add the chili and Worcestershire sauces, mix again. Taste and adjust the seasoning to your liking. Serve with little sticks of vegetables, toasts or crackers.
but for whatever square reasons, i balked. blame it on the taurus in me. i couldnt imagine packing a bag and getting off in fiumicino airport with no idea where or what or how or whether it was legal. i actually couldnt maintain eye contact with him i was so overwhelmed.
and im regretting it now. so much. because what i was forgetting is that we would be together. i always forget this. and not just with him, with everyone in my life. i see everything i do as being alone, every challenge i face i imagine myself being completely alone as i face it. and im not. i have an enormous web of supportive friends and family and even if theyre not WITH me, theyre with me. and if i forget that then so much seems too big to plan or manage. meanwhile this idea is maybe the most beautiful suggestion ive ever heard. so beautiful its terrifying. i fear idealism. i hate hoping for the best and ending up with something less than that, or, worse than disappointing myself, disappointing him. what if we go to the best place on earth in ideal conditions, together, and that doesnt actually make him happy? what if we pursue happiness in its purest form, and we dont find it?
so instead, what, im just going to sit in brookline and bitch about the weather working in a job that half makes me happy half makes the rest of the world happy and buy my half coffee half hot chocolates at the local 7/11? when i could be getting my morning shot of coffee standing up at a cafe bar living in a one room apt above a bakery or in a farm house on the amalfi coast harvesting, in a cafe, in a tourist agency or teaching or whatever but coming home to the person i see a future with each night? HEAVEN. or any variation of that = HEAVEN.
so screw the visa that i dont know how ill get, screw fear of uncertainty, fear of judgement, fear of landing on the other side of the rainbow in a heap with no money and no idea of where to go next. i want to pursue happiness if its a possibility.
and it is possible to do this in a way that isnt PURE risk, if we hopped around to a few farms for a little bit just spending money on our travel, learning about food, learning about farming, and then, at some point, maybe we would meet someone or find someplace or EAT something that made us think: we could DO this.
which brings me to the point which is that one of the reasons this conversation began was talking about foods that i havent found here that i remember from italy, wondering why, with everything thats imported, certain things havent taken off. and i was saying it would be so great to move to italy, learn all about xyz and then bring it back to the states, educate people here about a process, a flavor, something that would open people's minds. and mouths.
the item that started it all was a simple dip/spread made from white beans and green olive oil, pepper, salt, spread on toast... ugh. so good. and today i found a variation of this made by blending a can of white beans (drained) with lemon juice and peanut butter.
symbolism anyone?
i'm making it.
ill let you know.
White Bean and Nut Butter Dip
- a small can (400 g) of white beans
- 1 Tbsp peanut butter
- 1 Tbsp sesame butter (or just another of peanut)
- the juice of a lime
- 2 squirts of chili sauce
- 2 splashes of Worcestershire sauce
Drain the white beans, reserving the liquid for later. In a food processor, combine the white beans with the nut butters and the lime juice. Blend until smooth. If you find the mixture a bit too thick, add a little of the reserved bean liquid until the desired consistency is reached.
Add the chili and Worcestershire sauces, mix again. Taste and adjust the seasoning to your liking. Serve with little sticks of vegetables, toasts or crackers.
3.11.2010
"Oh life! Can you blame me for making a scene?"
Disclaimer: this is an excerpt from an email i just sent to my love. I always feel wierd and cheap taking thoughts i wrote TO someone and putting them in a blog post but the point is, its how i feel and i dont think i could say it any better, or maybe i could, later, but right now these are my thoughts and i just happen to have written them first to a specific person but i dont see a point in rewriting it in a different way. i dont think you mind. i just had to say all that. read on:
I found this poem this morning by tony hoagland who i am big time liking these days (obviously, ive posted three poems of his in the last 24 hours, i might as well just dedicate the month to him) and it really got me all pumped up.
i. related.
because i fucking hate that phrase, "dont take it personal" (all the more offensive for its bad grammar).
I dont consider myself thin-skinned, but ive always, even as a kid, been too aware not to take things personally, ive always felt the stab in someones voice, seen the vulnerability in eyes.
and whats the point if you dont at least try to become personally invested in what you do and who you deal with?
"Oh life! Can you blame me for making a scene?"
...yeah.
yeah!
Personal
Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—
the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,
the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me
and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.
The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,
and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.
Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk
Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts
but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;
I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,
I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back
and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries
like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.
Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?
You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.
I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:
trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.
by Tony Hoagland
I found this poem this morning by tony hoagland who i am big time liking these days (obviously, ive posted three poems of his in the last 24 hours, i might as well just dedicate the month to him) and it really got me all pumped up.
i. related.
because i fucking hate that phrase, "dont take it personal" (all the more offensive for its bad grammar).
I dont consider myself thin-skinned, but ive always, even as a kid, been too aware not to take things personally, ive always felt the stab in someones voice, seen the vulnerability in eyes.
and whats the point if you dont at least try to become personally invested in what you do and who you deal with?
"Oh life! Can you blame me for making a scene?"
...yeah.
yeah!
Personal
Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—
the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,
the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me
and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.
The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,
and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.
Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk
Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts
but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;
I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,
I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back
and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries
like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.
Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?
You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.
I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:
trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.
by Tony Hoagland
you can feel less alone in the night
Night Walk
The all-night convenience store’s empty
and no one is behind the counter.
You open and shut the glass door a few times
causing a bell to go off,
but no one appears. You only came
to buy a pack of cigarettes, maybe
a copy of yesterday’s newspaper –
finally you take one and leave
thirty-five cents in its place.
It is freezing, but it is a good thing
to step outside again:
you can feel less alone in the night,
with lights on here and there
between the dark buildings and trees.
Your own among them, somewhere.
There must be thousands of people
in this city who are dying
to welcome you into their small bolted rooms,
to sit you down and tell you
what has happened to their lives.
And the night smells like snow.
Walking home, for a moment
you almost believe you could start again.
And an intense love rushes to your heart,
and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.
by Franz Wright
The all-night convenience store’s empty
and no one is behind the counter.
You open and shut the glass door a few times
causing a bell to go off,
but no one appears. You only came
to buy a pack of cigarettes, maybe
a copy of yesterday’s newspaper –
finally you take one and leave
thirty-five cents in its place.
It is freezing, but it is a good thing
to step outside again:
you can feel less alone in the night,
with lights on here and there
between the dark buildings and trees.
Your own among them, somewhere.
There must be thousands of people
in this city who are dying
to welcome you into their small bolted rooms,
to sit you down and tell you
what has happened to their lives.
And the night smells like snow.
Walking home, for a moment
you almost believe you could start again.
And an intense love rushes to your heart,
and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.
by Franz Wright
3.10.2010
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
Did i say two tremendous poems? i meant three. he's competing with dunn for favorte poet. i love this. uncomfortably wonderfully honest. i think he's reading somewhere in Boston this spring but i cant figure it out. ploughshares is being cagey. i will prevail though, and ill see him live. so help me i will.
Windchime
She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It's six-thirty in the morning
and she's standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,
windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she's trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.
She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn't making
because it wasn't there.
No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands on the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.
by Tony Hoagland
Windchime
She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It's six-thirty in the morning
and she's standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,
windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she's trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.
She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn't making
because it wasn't there.
No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands on the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.
by Tony Hoagland
and everything got still.
Two tremendous poems by tony hoagland. read more here
Spring Lemonade
In late April they spread manure on the fields
the same week the lilac hedges bloom,
so the nose gets one of those symphonic challenges
that require you to stand out on the porch and breathe.
The earth goes around a corner, the dresser drawers slide out
and naturally, we change our clothes,
putting the long underwear away,
taking out the short-sleeve shirts,
trying to make the transition
from psychological Moscow
to psychological Hawaii.
When Mary left her husband in December,
she made herself despise him
as a way of pushing off,
like you would push off from the wall of a swimming pool,
but then she gradually believed her own story
of how horrible he was,
and when I talked to her in March,
she was still spitting on his memory:
you would have thought she never had a heart.
There's a wheel turning in the center of the earth
and over it, our feet are always running, running,
trying to keep pace.
Then there's a period of quietude and rue,
when you want to crawl inside yourself,
when you prefer ugliness to hope.
Last night the sunset was so pink and swollen
the sky looked like it had gotten an infection.
We were sitting on the lawn and sipping lemonade.
Inflamed clouds were throbbing in the fevered light.
Shannon murmured, Somebody better call a doctor.
Kath said, Somebody get some aspirin.
But nobody moved.
And the smell of lilacs and manure blew out of the fields
with such complexity and sweetness, we closed our eyes.
It had nothing to do with being good, or smart, or choosing right.
It had to do with being lucky--
something none of us had ever imagined.
Disappointment
I was feeling pretty religious
standing on the bridge in my winter coat
looking down at the gray water:
the sharp little waves dusted with snow,
fish in their tin armor.
That's what I like about disappointment:
the way it slows you down,
when the querulous insistent chatter of desire
goes dead calm
and the minor roadside flowers
pronounce their quiet colors,
and the red dirt of the hillside glows.
She played the flute, he played the fiddle
and the moon came up over the barn.
Then he didn't get the job, —
or her father died before she told him
that one, most important thing—
and everything got still.
It was February or October
It was July
I remember it so clear
You don't have to pursue anything ever again
It's over
You're free
You're unemployed
You just have to stand there
looking out on the water
in your trench coat of solitude
with your scarf of resignation
lifting in the wind.
By Tony Hoagland
Spring Lemonade
In late April they spread manure on the fields
the same week the lilac hedges bloom,
so the nose gets one of those symphonic challenges
that require you to stand out on the porch and breathe.
The earth goes around a corner, the dresser drawers slide out
and naturally, we change our clothes,
putting the long underwear away,
taking out the short-sleeve shirts,
trying to make the transition
from psychological Moscow
to psychological Hawaii.
When Mary left her husband in December,
she made herself despise him
as a way of pushing off,
like you would push off from the wall of a swimming pool,
but then she gradually believed her own story
of how horrible he was,
and when I talked to her in March,
she was still spitting on his memory:
you would have thought she never had a heart.
There's a wheel turning in the center of the earth
and over it, our feet are always running, running,
trying to keep pace.
Then there's a period of quietude and rue,
when you want to crawl inside yourself,
when you prefer ugliness to hope.
Last night the sunset was so pink and swollen
the sky looked like it had gotten an infection.
We were sitting on the lawn and sipping lemonade.
Inflamed clouds were throbbing in the fevered light.
Shannon murmured, Somebody better call a doctor.
Kath said, Somebody get some aspirin.
But nobody moved.
And the smell of lilacs and manure blew out of the fields
with such complexity and sweetness, we closed our eyes.
It had nothing to do with being good, or smart, or choosing right.
It had to do with being lucky--
something none of us had ever imagined.
Disappointment
I was feeling pretty religious
standing on the bridge in my winter coat
looking down at the gray water:
the sharp little waves dusted with snow,
fish in their tin armor.
That's what I like about disappointment:
the way it slows you down,
when the querulous insistent chatter of desire
goes dead calm
and the minor roadside flowers
pronounce their quiet colors,
and the red dirt of the hillside glows.
She played the flute, he played the fiddle
and the moon came up over the barn.
Then he didn't get the job, —
or her father died before she told him
that one, most important thing—
and everything got still.
It was February or October
It was July
I remember it so clear
You don't have to pursue anything ever again
It's over
You're free
You're unemployed
You just have to stand there
looking out on the water
in your trench coat of solitude
with your scarf of resignation
lifting in the wind.
By Tony Hoagland
3.07.2010
hey baby hey
the sea was rollin' in slate gray
I looked at you and I looked away
I was cryin'
because I was happy
I didn't want you to see
I was afraid of such mystery
and afraid of losing
so afraid of losing
later on on a balcony
we had a good talk and we felt free
I was comin' to you from far away
light was dim but you showed me the way
in your arms all I could say was
hey baby hey baby hey baby hey
my heart was torn I'd made up my mind
I'd keep to myself and just be kind
and need nothing
just need nothing
love my folks my kids my friends
and make it on through to the end
no more suffering
over loving
you get to me like old time religion did
in my heart when I was a kid
you're sweet gospel music to my ears
you know how to ease all my fears
and from my heart to yours all I can say is
hey baby hey baby hey baby hey
and as we go on through the deal I
I know that we won't always feel
real wonderful
life ain't like that
but I want to stay right by your side
check out the view enjoy the ride
together
with all our loved ones
I want to plant a little garden with you now
take care of a piece of the earth somehow
and tend it when we're old and gray and
try to straighten up and say, well,
I'm so glad to see you today
hey baby hey baby hey baby hey
3.05.2010
sometimes i forget, i am one of everybody
Everybody
I stood at a bus corner
one afternoon, waiting
for the #2. An old
guy stood waiting too.
I stared at him. He
caught my stare, grinned,
gap-toothed. Will you
sign my coat? he said.
Held out a pen. He wore
a dirty canvas coat that
had signatures all over
it, hundreds, maybe
thousands.
I’m trying
to get everybody, he
said.
I signed. On a
little space on a pocket.
Sometimes I remember:
I am one of everybody.
by Marie Sheppard Williams
I stood at a bus corner
one afternoon, waiting
for the #2. An old
guy stood waiting too.
I stared at him. He
caught my stare, grinned,
gap-toothed. Will you
sign my coat? he said.
Held out a pen. He wore
a dirty canvas coat that
had signatures all over
it, hundreds, maybe
thousands.
I’m trying
to get everybody, he
said.
I signed. On a
little space on a pocket.
Sometimes I remember:
I am one of everybody.
by Marie Sheppard Williams
companions and discoverers...we became perhaps more than we are
6
Dearest, I never knew such loving. There
in that glass tower in the alien city, alone,
we found what somewhere I had always known
exists and must exist, this fervent care,
this lust of tenderness. Two were aware
how in hot seizure, bone pressed to bone
and liquid flesh to flesh, each separate moan
was pleasure, yes, but most in the other's share.
Companions and discoverers, equal and free,
so deep in love we adventured and so far
that we became perhaps more than we are,
and now being home is hardship. Therefore are we
diminished? No. We are of the world again
but still augmented, more than we've ever been.
by Hayden Carruth
Read more of this Carruth's amazing love (and other)poetry here.
Dearest, I never knew such loving. There
in that glass tower in the alien city, alone,
we found what somewhere I had always known
exists and must exist, this fervent care,
this lust of tenderness. Two were aware
how in hot seizure, bone pressed to bone
and liquid flesh to flesh, each separate moan
was pleasure, yes, but most in the other's share.
Companions and discoverers, equal and free,
so deep in love we adventured and so far
that we became perhaps more than we are,
and now being home is hardship. Therefore are we
diminished? No. We are of the world again
but still augmented, more than we've ever been.
by Hayden Carruth
Read more of this Carruth's amazing love (and other)poetry here.
3.04.2010
to greet joy without a trace of suspicion
i want to greet joy without a trace of suspicion.
or i want to be able to appreciate the joy i have now without feeling the need to run ahead of it and clear the obstacles, like some kind of joy bodyguard, or a joy curler (yes i just used curling in a metaphor for my attitude towards joy) i want to hastily smooth the surface as it rolls forward... i am desperate to lay down my jacket for joy. for love.
or, if i cant help myself from looking ahead, then i want to at least believe that love lasts. even if it's changing, growing, deepening, darkening, weakening, wounding, scarring, grounding, ever-awakening to reality or in a constant state of complication, i just want to believe to my core that it can endure.
but not endure like a punctured animal drags on, hobbled and in pain, i want the love that made it all begin to endure - even as it takes new shape i am beginning to feel how that familiar strong structure of love can be there, always there, holding everything up like bones.
this may be the biggest challenge of personal life. not just keeping love alive but believing it is possible. thank you stephen dobyns for this tornado of a poem that sucked me in and dropped me off a few counties away.
Waking
Waking, I look at you sleeping beside me.
It is early and the baby in her crib
has begun her conversation with the gods
that direct her, cooing and making small hoots.
Watching you, I see how your face bears the signs
of our time together—for each objective
description, there is the romantic; for each
scientific fact, there's the subjective truth—
this line was caused by days at a microscope,
this from when you thought I no longer loved you.
Last night a friend called to say that he intends
to move out; so simple, he and his wife splitting
like a cell into two separate creatures.
What would happen if we divided ourselves?
As two colors blend on a white pad, so we
have become a third color; or better,
as a wire bites into the tree it surrounds,
so we have grown together. Can you believe
how frightening I find this, to know I have
no life except with you? It's almost enough
to make me destroy it just to protest it.
Always we seemed perched on the brink of chaos.
But today there's just sunlight and the baby's
chatter, her wonder at the way light dances
on the wall. How lucky to be ignorant,
to greet joy without a trace of suspicion,
to take that first step without worrying what
comes trailing after, as night trails after day,
or winter summer, or confusion where all
seemed clear and each moment was its own reward.
by Stephen Dobyns
or i want to be able to appreciate the joy i have now without feeling the need to run ahead of it and clear the obstacles, like some kind of joy bodyguard, or a joy curler (yes i just used curling in a metaphor for my attitude towards joy) i want to hastily smooth the surface as it rolls forward... i am desperate to lay down my jacket for joy. for love.
or, if i cant help myself from looking ahead, then i want to at least believe that love lasts. even if it's changing, growing, deepening, darkening, weakening, wounding, scarring, grounding, ever-awakening to reality or in a constant state of complication, i just want to believe to my core that it can endure.
but not endure like a punctured animal drags on, hobbled and in pain, i want the love that made it all begin to endure - even as it takes new shape i am beginning to feel how that familiar strong structure of love can be there, always there, holding everything up like bones.
this may be the biggest challenge of personal life. not just keeping love alive but believing it is possible. thank you stephen dobyns for this tornado of a poem that sucked me in and dropped me off a few counties away.
Waking
Waking, I look at you sleeping beside me.
It is early and the baby in her crib
has begun her conversation with the gods
that direct her, cooing and making small hoots.
Watching you, I see how your face bears the signs
of our time together—for each objective
description, there is the romantic; for each
scientific fact, there's the subjective truth—
this line was caused by days at a microscope,
this from when you thought I no longer loved you.
Last night a friend called to say that he intends
to move out; so simple, he and his wife splitting
like a cell into two separate creatures.
What would happen if we divided ourselves?
As two colors blend on a white pad, so we
have become a third color; or better,
as a wire bites into the tree it surrounds,
so we have grown together. Can you believe
how frightening I find this, to know I have
no life except with you? It's almost enough
to make me destroy it just to protest it.
Always we seemed perched on the brink of chaos.
But today there's just sunlight and the baby's
chatter, her wonder at the way light dances
on the wall. How lucky to be ignorant,
to greet joy without a trace of suspicion,
to take that first step without worrying what
comes trailing after, as night trails after day,
or winter summer, or confusion where all
seemed clear and each moment was its own reward.
by Stephen Dobyns
3.03.2010
i am very tired of the sound of typing
i just want to listen to greg brown's voice and all he has to say that i believe in.
3.02.2010
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