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Tuesday, August 6, 2019



An Arundel Tomb
by Philip Larkin

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,   
Their proper habits vaguely shown  
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,   
And that faint hint of the absurd—   
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still   
Clasped empty in the other; and   
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,   
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand. 

Such faithfulness in effigy,
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor’s sweet commissioned grace   
Thrown off in helping to prolong   
The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,   
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths   
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the glass. A bright   
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths   
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.   
Now, helpless in the hollow of   
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,   
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into   
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be   
Their final blazon, and to prove   
Our almost-instinct almost true:   
What will survive of us is love.

Thursday, January 17, 2019

Look, the trees

In my life, loss has never come alone. Instead, it arrives en masse - a horde of grey birds circling and hovering. The flock won't move on until it has picked over everything and the sun is dim in the sky.

This year, only 17 days in, the gulls have alighted atop each other on the banks of January: a beginning colored by a palpable sense of loss. Now, Mary Oliver, whom I have loved since I first met her as a young student in the library, departs the shores of this world as well. Another loss to mark the ascent of  smoke up the chimney, logs hissing and sputtering around the great flame.
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
“In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Glenn Gould


Paying tribute today to the late and great Glenn Gould, whom I admire for many reasons, not least of all his tremendous raw talent, perspicacious wit and unapologetic eccentricity, and of course - his hair.  
"It is in a short music which observes neither end nor beginning, music with neither real climax nor real resolution … It has, then, unity through intuitive perception, unity born of craft and scrutiny, mellowed by mastery achieved, and revealed to us here, as so rarely in art, in the vision of subconscious design exulting upon a pinnacle of potency."
– Glenn Gould, on Bach's Goldberg Variations  (1955)
Excerpts from "Advice to a Graduation," in which Gould articulates his fascinating vision of "a vast background of immense possibility, of negation … the source from which all creative ideas come." Delivered at the Royal Conservatory of Music, University of Toronto, November 1964. 
When people who practice an art like music become captives of those positive assumptions of system, when they forget to credit that happening against negation which system is, and when they become disrespectful of the immensity of negation compared to system – then they put themselves out of reach of that replenishment of invention upon which creative ideas depend, because invention is, in fact, a cautious dipping into the negation that lies outside system from a position firmly ensconced in system. I do not, for one moment, suggest that you minimize the importance of dogmatic theory. I do not suggest, either, that you extend your investigative powers to such purpose that you compromise your own comforting faith in the systems by which you have been taught and to which you remain responsive. But I do suggest that you take care to recall often that the systems by which we organize our thinking, and in which we attempt to pass on that thinking to the generations that follow, represent what you might think of as a foreground of activity – of positive, convinced, self-reliant action – and that this foreground can have validity only insofar as it attempts to impose credibility on that vast background acreage of human possibility that has not yet been organized.
This solitude that you can acquire and should cultivate, this opportunity for contemplation of which you should take advantage, will be useful to you only insofar as you can substitute for those questions posed by the student for the teacher, questions posed by yourself for yourself. You must try to discover how high your tolerance is for the questions you ask of yourself. You must try to recognize that point beyond which the creative exploration – questions that extend your vision of your world – extends beyond the point of tolerance and paralyses the imagination by confronting it with too much possibility, too much speculative opportunity. To keep the practical issues of systematized thought and the speculative opportunities of the creative instinct in balance will be the most difficult and most important undertaking of your lives in music.
...so long as you remain deeply involved with the processes of your own imagination – not as alternative to what seems to be the reality of outward observation, not even as supplement to positive action and acquisition, because that's not the way in which the imagination can serve you best. What it can do is to serve as a sort of no man's land between that foreground of system and dogma, of positive action, for which you have been trained, and that vast background of immense possibility, of negation, which you must constantly examine, and to which you must never forget to pay homage as the source from which all creative ideas come.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Love After Love

The time will come 
when, with elation 
you will greet yourself arriving 
at your own door, in your own mirror 
and each will smile at the other's welcome, 

and say, sit here. Eat. 
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 

all your life, whom you ignored 
for another, who knows you by heart. 
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, 

the photographs, the desperate notes, 
peel your own image from the mirror. 
Sit. Feast on your life. 

- Derek Walcott

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

John Ashbery in the Paris Review:

 Susan Sontag was at this writers' conference also—there were just four of us—and one night in Warsaw we were provided with tickets to a ballet. I said, “Do you think we should go? It doesn't sound like it will be too interesting.” And she said, “Sure, we should go. If it is boring that will be interesting too” —which turned out to be the case. But it doesn't really matter so much what the individual thing is. Many times I will jot down ideas and phrases, and then when I am ready to write I can't find them. But it doesn't make any difference, because whatever comes along at that time will have the same quality. Whatever was there is replaceable. In fact, often in revising I will remove the idea that was the original stimulus. I think I am more interested in the movement among ideas than in the ideas themselves, the way one goes from one point to another rather than the destination or the origin. The pathos and liveliness of ordinary human communication is poetry to me.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Sunday, November 23, 2014

El Mar

Necesito del mar porque me enseña:
no sé si aprendo música o conciencia:
no sé si es ola sola o ser profundo
o sólo ronca voz o deslumbrante
suposición de peces y navios.
El hecho es que hasta cuando estoy dormido
de algún modo magnético circulo
en la universidad del oleaje.
No son sólo las conchas trituradas
como si algún planeta tembloroso
participara paulatina muerte,
no, del fragmento reconstruyo el día,
de una racha de sal la estalactita
y de una cucharada el dios inmenso.

Lo que antes me enseñó lo guardo! Es aire,
incesante viento, agua y arena.

Parece poco para el hombre joven
que aquí llegó a vivir con sus incendios,
y sin embargo el pulso que subía
y bajaba a su abismo,
el frío del azul que crepitaba,
el desmoronamiento de la estrella,
el tierno desplegarse de la ola
despilfarrando nieve con la espuma,
el poder quieto, allí, determinado
como un trono de piedra en lo profundo,
substituyó el recinto en que crecían
tristeza terca, amontonando olvido,
y cambió bruscamente mi existencia:
di mi adhesión al puro movimiento.

phrases we like: a compendium

i was reading something recently - an interview with john ashbery, i believe - in which he said that the construction of sentences is one of the most profound and exquisite acts that humans perform. i agree. a beautiful sentence or turn of phrase is such a treasure - something to marvel at, turn slowly over in your mind, test out on your tongue, let free to flutter around in the air … and lately i've come across several that i've enjoyed so i am beginning to compile them here.

Her caves ghosted by foxes.  - from Pierced Darkness, by Adrienne Rich

He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. he did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.  

- from The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald (from whence the title of rich's book "dark fields of the republic")

Forward, forward let us range, let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

- from Locksley Hall, Alfred Lord Tennyson (also from whence the title of Colm McCann's book "let the great world spin")


and one that's been here before, but i'll excerpt it again:


edge light from the high desert where shadows drip from tiniest stones

sunklight of bloody afterglow
torque of the joshua tree flinging itself forth in winter
factoring freeze into its liquid consciousness
these are the extremes i stoke
into the updraft of this life
still roaring
into thinnest air

- from Inscriptions, adrienne rich

For a long time afterward, the world grew chipper, 

offering samples of itself to every comer. That’s why I was so late. It takes a long time to choose when you’re not ready. Even longer when you are. You know this better than anyone, myself included.

- from Wulf, by John Ashbery

There's no way to be in good faith on this island anymore. You have to crush so many things with your mind vise just to get through the day. 


- from Find Your Beach, by Zadie Smith 

On the way to take a plane early one icy spring morning I spotted him on the airport road. He was making his determined way towards town, his breath smoking and a drop at the end of his poor old battered nose glinting like a fresh-cut jewel in the pink-tinged, frosty sunlight.  


- from Ancient Light, by John Banville 

Everything that rises must converge - flannery o'connor

all that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real conditions of his life, and his relations with his kind