Month: November 2004

  • The Course of a Particular

    The Course of a Particular by Wallace Stevens Today the leaves cry, hanging on branches swept by wind, Yet the nothingness of winter becomes a little less. It is still full of icy shades and shapen snow. The leaves cry . . . One holds off and merely hears the cry. It is a busy…

  • No Comment

    I realize this has absolutely no impact on anyone’s behaviour here, since very few comments have ever been posted, but due to a massive wave of comment spam I had to turn the comment feature off. Don’t be surprised if nobody comments on your posts—they can’t. I’m really very sorry; I just don’t have time…

  • The Flight of Language

    The Flight of Language by W. S. Merwin Some of the leaves stay on all winter and spring comes without knowing whether there is suffering in them or ever was and what it is in the tongue they speak that cannot be remembered by listening for the whole time that they are on the tree…

  • On Growing Old

    On Growing Old by John Masefield Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying, My dog and I are old, too old for roving, Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving. I take the book and gather to the fire, Turning old yellow…

  • The Stars at Tallapoosa

    The Stars at Tallapoosa by Wallace Stevens The lines are straight and swift between the stars. The night is not the cradle that they cry, The criers, undulating the deep-oceaned phrase. The lines are much too dark and much too sharp. The mind herein attains simplicity. There is no moon, on single, silvered leaf. The…

  • London Rain

    London Rain by Louis MacNeice The rain of London pimples The ebony street with white And the neon lamps of London Stain the canals of night And the park becomes a jungle In the alchemy of night. My wishes turn to violent Horses black as coal— The randy mares of fancy, The stallions of the…