I’ve drifted to sleep this week to Ken Burns, The Civil War. The photos gave me pause. We killed each other well, we did. On a somewhat related note, this is our National Poetry Month, and this is a brief note on a poem. Christmas Bells was a Civil War …
Sifting through a 2006 David Foster Wallace essay on Roger Federer in NYT Play, Federer as Religious Experience, I realize that this internet is good for some things. Recently finding old David Foster Wallace pieces is one of those things. I can come to no conclusion as to the benefits, …
Today is international women’s day. I can think of no more worthy a celebration than to sit down to a glass of wine (cocoa, tea, beer, cranberry juice), while reading the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay. My acquaintance with her is slight, by way of Witch Wife and First …
It Is March “It is March and black dust falls out of the books Soon I will be gone The tall spirit who lodged here has Left already On the avenues the colorless thread lies under Old prices When you look back there is always the past Even when it …
Goodbye 2010. I can’t say I’ll miss you, but I will remember you well. In a year where blogging became an afterthought to work and academia, and in which, to my own horror and disbelief, You Tube became my friend, these are what I consider the best of the lot. …
I knew a Slovenian poet in college, or so he said. I never disputed his claim on poetry or Slovenia, though there was more than reasonable doubt behind either declaration. My first college roommate, with her vulgar bedroom habits and less than inspired imagination, could have easily challenged him in …
