that's how a God is reached, in whose
bright synaesthesias of sympathy a blood
need not be red, if spilled as speech..."
Heather McHugh, Spilled
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Bronze Tongue, Tuned Lip, Decorative Belts on the Skirt
Blog Archive
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2008
(94)
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February
(20)
- Elder child experiments with short form
- No tag-backs, and the tree is base
- the poems themselves perform feats of derring-do*
- No title
- "How about Barbizon, I said.
- "At dawn, when the first buses leave,
- White City: Poems by Mark Irwin
- Verloren
- Reading Celan
- Looking forward to steroid psychosis
- Post in which I am Frustrated about Airways
- Ah, the Lure of Dead Languages
- "For all we know
- Montivagant
- Ainadamar
- Run, run, run, run, Runaway
- New England Baked Beans
- "We're lost
- Ambages
- "And vanished in the emptiness of a bell."*
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February
(20)
About Me
Much Ado About Nothing
Don Pedro
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.
Beatrice
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.
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