Books! (Heft Of Cathedral tunes Edition)
Brian Fagab, The Little Ice Age: Couldn't finish it. I'm not sure if the Spanish translation was too bad, if it was just badly written, or if the book was contextually better when it came out, but by now the climate-history relationship is a common enough locus that writing quality matters.
Everyman's Poetry collection of Emily Dickinson's poems: The last time I read some of her poems, I was impressed by the articulation of her joy. This time, I'm touched by her familiarity with certain forms of horror and dreadful irony.
There's liveness in here, but also the awareness of despair:
Why-do they shut Me out of Heaven?
Did I sing-too loud?
But-I can say a little "Minor"
Timid as a Bird!
Wouldn't the Angels try me-
Just-once-more-
Just-see-if I troubled them-
But don't-shut the door!
Oh, if I-were the Gentleman
In the "White Robe"-
And they-were the little Hand-that knocked-
Could-I-forbid?
And here's one of the most vivid written recollections of pain I remember (it's like a connoted Tolstoi):
After great pain, a formal feeling comes --
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs --
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round --
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought --
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone --
This is the Hour of Lead --
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --
First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go --
She's also a very realistic and powerful romantic poet - specially on the ways, if you pardon my un-Dickinsonian expression, love fucks you up.
Everyman's Poetry collection of Emily Dickinson's poems: The last time I read some of her poems, I was impressed by the articulation of her joy. This time, I'm touched by her familiarity with certain forms of horror and dreadful irony.
There's liveness in here, but also the awareness of despair:
Why-do they shut Me out of Heaven?
Did I sing-too loud?
But-I can say a little "Minor"
Timid as a Bird!
Wouldn't the Angels try me-
Just-once-more-
Just-see-if I troubled them-
But don't-shut the door!
Oh, if I-were the Gentleman
In the "White Robe"-
And they-were the little Hand-that knocked-
Could-I-forbid?
And here's one of the most vivid written recollections of pain I remember (it's like a connoted Tolstoi):
After great pain, a formal feeling comes --
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs --
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round --
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought --
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone --
This is the Hour of Lead --
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --
First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go --
She's also a very realistic and powerful romantic poet - specially on the ways, if you pardon my un-Dickinsonian expression, love fucks you up.