As poetry month closes, I see many of you have done a poetic tribute or two, and good for you. You, suffering so well through my repeats, have allowed me to catch up on my drinking work, get ahead, almost finish even…. so yeah you. Concerned about destiny, space, time, …
As poetry month continues I opine on The Waste Land . A must read if you’ve not yet had the opportunity. Most of us read the version with Eliot’s original notes interspersed, the publisher squeezing the poet’s life story in on the side, in between paragraphs, or via endless footnotes. …
People are strange when you’re a stranger Faces look ugly when you’re alone Women seem wicked when you’re unwanted Streets are uneven when you’re down Ordered an early birthday present. Makes a nice night shirt. I’m too old for posters. Anything Doors works for poetry month, yes? When you’re strange …
Each night father fills me with dread As he sits at the foot of my bed I don’t mind that he speaks In gibbers and squeaks But for seventeen years he’s been dead. From The Listing Attic, Edward Gorey. Circa 1954. For some gory Gorey, see my Compulsions. Happy Halloween. …
