I read this poem over at Andrew Sullivan's blog and it made me think so strongly of Vaughn and my hopes for him, that I thought I'd post it.

Please bring strange thingsPlease bring strange things ( Read more... )

I know, I know, I'm supposed have posted a Guam retrospective by now, but I've been extremely busy. Busy at work, busy at the jobs besides my full-time, busy getting ST off to Costa Rica for his bachelors shin-dig (going on a trip is a bachelor tradition amongst ST's friends, and he's the last one) busy whisking my mom around town to make the final ( Read more... )

here are four very different beauties, two of which are from the march issue of poetry and two from the intermittently reliable new yorker (scroll down the page for more nutritious and delicious poetry snacks. is good for you!).

( enojy )

so here's an interesting ( nostalgic piece )

D ran across this ( poem )

from the wonderful tony hoagland. who writes verse with the humor and readability of billy collins, but it is generally served up on the page with a bit more bite. also, he's one of the few poets i know who writes successful political poetry: not too whiny, not too cynical. critical, but with a dash of playfulness, which makes the whole experience ( Read more... )

on sunday, ST took me to see mirror of the invisible world by the wonderful mary zimmerman at the goodman theater. the playwrite and the institution are both heavy hitters in chicago and nationally, but i had only admired both form afar until ST sprung this impromptu, "after june birthday present" on me. well, let me tell you it was lovely. we ( Read more... )

Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry

Relax. This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
( read on )

this afternoon, i had the good fortune to be walking around an andersonville bookstore with my very old friend P. P and i met at a summer enrichment program and have never lived in the same city, but somehow, have always remained friends. as we browsed the rows of books, as we have done together in the dusty local book shops of a half a dozen ( Read more... )

from Mother by Herman de ConinckFor poetry is about letting things
grow moldy together, like grapes
turning into wine, reality into preserves,
and hoarding words in the cellar of yourself.
indeed, i have often thought so ( Read more... )