-
(Untitled)
broken piggy banks.
the glue doesn't hold. -
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the other day someone was telling me of this book, an epic set in mumbai, recommending it to me. then i came across the quote today. interesting. thoughts?
“What characterizes the human race more, Karla once asked me, cruelty, or the capacity to feel shame for it? I thought the question acutely clever then, when I first heard it, but I’m lonelier ( Read more... ) -
the spam continues
i would like to analyze it. perhaps one day i will create a book of poems "found" in my email. the forward will involve quotes - a line here, a stanza there, illustrating my analysis of the poets' motivations, the universal emotions captured in and manipulated by the text.
here is today's offering from the arbitrary gods of spam:
Hello, my dear ( Read more... ) -
a bone thrown from the void
i find poetry in unexpected places.
take my spam box:
Hi, Carl
I was waiting all winter, I am still waiting when the Skies will fill up
with the first thunderstorm, when it will rain and will bring the fresh air,
to forget the winter and to wash off any sorrows of past life. So that when
I will meet you, my dear I will be fresh like a thunderstorm, I ( Read more... ) -
tuesday evening, 5 pm
the sky darkens
the wind rises
breezes blow open the door
and i leave my computer for the balcony
rain drops fall plump and plush and my skirt dances
i am one with the wet universe -
emily - by joanna newsom
The meadowlark and the chim-choo-ree and the sparrow ( Read more... ) -
i love good journalism
About 200 million migrants from different countries are scattered across the globe, supporting a population back home that is as big if not bigger. Were these half-billion or so people to constitute a state - migration nation - it would rank as the world’s third-largest. While some migrants go abroad with Ph.D.’s, most travel as Emmet did, with ( Read more... ) -
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Every beginning
is but a continuation,
and the book of events
is never more than half open.
- Wislawa Szymborska -
Orion
Far back when I went zig-zagging
through tamarack pastures
you were my genius, you
my cast-iron Viking, my helmed
lion-heart king in prison.
Years later now you're young
my fierce half-brother, staring
down from that simplified west
your breast open, your belt dragged down
by an oldfashioned thing, a sword
the last bravado you won't give over
though it weighs ( Read more... )
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