You've got to dig to dig it, you dig?
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 floorA line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the centerHeavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply too short For me to sit in and readSo my first book was always bigIn the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presidedTo the left side the card catalogueOn the right newspapers draped over what looked like a quilt rackMagazines face out from the wallThe welcoming smile of my librarianThe anticipation in my heartAll those books—another world—just waitingAt my fingertips.
My First Memory (of Librarians), Nikki Giovanni
Romare Bearden, Untitled, 1980s(?). DC Moore Gallery.
Thomas Allen, Ronchini.
Teresa Gierzynska, Gunia Nowik Gallery.
unsignificantly
off the coast
there was
a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, William Carlos Williams
MNP at Untitled Art Fair.
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties,
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile,
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
As if some little Arctic flower,
Upon the polar hem,
Went wandering down the latitudes,
Until it puzzled came
To continents of summer,
To firmaments of sun,
To strange, bright crowds of flowers,
And birds of foreign tongue!
I say, as if this little flower
To Eden wandered in —
What then? Why, nothing, only,
Your inference therefrom!