You've got to dig to dig it, you dig?
tilt : to move or shift so as to lean or incline
Middle English tulten, tilten to fall over, cause to fall, from Old English *tyltan, *tieltan, akin to Old English tealt unstable, tealtian to totter
“Tilt.” Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary, Merriam-Webster, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/tilt. Accessed 23 Dec. 2024.
Blue Note. Donald Byrd’s 1973 live recording release in 2022.
We take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care,
From tears and sadness free.
And, haply, Death unstrings his bow,
And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
The sunshine of the heart.
Existence seems a summer eve,
Warm, soft, and full of peace;
Our free, unfettered feelings give
The soul its full release.
A moment, then, it takes the power
To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowed hour,
This life’s divinest glow.
But Time, though viewlessly it flies,
And slowly, will not stay;
Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
It cleaves its silent way.
Alike the bitter cup of grief,
Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
For baffled lips to kiss.
The sparkling draught is dried away,
The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
“Ho, lingerer, hasten on!”
And has the soul, then, only gained,
From this brief time of ease,
A moment’s rest, when overstrained,
One hurried glimpse of peace?
No; while the sun shone kindly o’er us,
And flowers bloomed round our feet, —
While many a bud of joy before us
Unclosed its petals sweet, —
An unseen work within was plying;
Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
Laboured one faculty, —
Thoughtful for Winter’s future sorrow,
Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day of want to-morrow,
Toiled quiet Memory.
’Tis she that from each transient pleasure
Extracts a lasting good;
’Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure
To serve for winter’s food.
And when Youth’s summer day is vanished,
And Age brings winter’s stress,
Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
Life’s evening hours will bless.
Winter Stores, Charlotte Brontë
Situationists transform the urban landscape.
Born into each seed
is a small anti-seed
useful in case of some
complete reversal:
a tiny but powerful
kit for adapting it
to the unimaginable.
If we could crack the
fineness of the shell
we’d see the
bundled minuses
stacked as in a safe,
ready for use
if things don’t
go well.
In Case of Complete Reversal, Kay Ryan
Aria Dean argues the difficulty of black flânerie. But wandering may be utopian at levels beyond the utility. Its privilege may be, as des “gestes” artistiques, in the sphere of thought, language, and geography. A privilege that leans on a poetic, une poétique de la Relation : “l’imaginaire de mon lieu est relié à la réalité imaginaire des lieux du monde, et tout inversement.” (Édouard Glissant, Discours Antillais au Tout Monde)
Hello to the era of going to the store to buy more ice
because we are running out.
Hello to feelings that arrive unintroduced.
Hello to the nonfunctional sprig of parsley
and the game of finding meaning in coincidence.
Cassette County, David Berman
Lawns and fields and hills and wide old velvet
sleeves, green things. They stretch, fold, roll away,
unfurl and calm the eye. Look lush in paintings.
Battles are fought on greens. Or you could spread
a meal and sup. How secretly they lie, floors of
distant forests. Next comes the grave, in many a
poem about green. But this is not a poem. This is a
billboard for frozen green peas. Frozen green peas
are good for pain.
Short Talk on Pain, Anne Carson
This is my first memory: A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky wood floor A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply too short For me to sit in and read So my first book was always big In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presided To the left side the card catalogue On the right newspapers draped over what looked like a quilt rack Magazines face out from the wall The welcoming smile of my librarian The anticipation in my heart All those books—another world—just waiting At my fingertips.
My First Memory (of Librarians), Nikki Giovanni