From no nowhere not near the sea
on blue field flax
the cemetery's absolutely solitary
you and you and a third
of a pound of bread
for supper in the refectory
where I would die of hunger
if you--if soon--if on this unday--one
undoing would be undone
Unday, Fanny Howe
Crime 101, Bart Layton. Based on novella by Don Winslow. Music by Blanck Mass.
NomaRhythm Textile. Filmed and Directed by Rinko Kawauchi
The long love that in my thought doth harbour
And in mine heart doth keep his residence,
Into my face presseth with bold pretence
And therein campeth spreading his bannèr.
She that me learns to love and suffèr
And wills that my trust, and lust’s negligence
Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence,
With his hardiness takes displeasùre.
Wherewithall unto the heart’s forest he fleèth,
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,
And there him hideth, and not appearèth.
What may I do when my master fearèth?
But in the field with him to live and die
For good is the life, ending faithfully.
[The long love that in my thought doth harbour], Thomas Wyatt
How a tropical bean could help treat Parkinson’s tremors, Meredith Bauer-Mitchell and Eva Sailly (ifas.ufl.edu)
Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls.
The cold wind tears the strands of illusion;
The delicate music is lost
In the blare of home-going crowds
And a midnight paper.
The night has grown martial;
It meets us with blows and disaster.
Even the stars have turned shrapnel,
Fixed in silent explosions.
And here at our door
The moonlight is laid
Like a drawn sword.
End of Comedy, Louis Untermeyer
What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that’s taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion’s sake.
Fragment, Amy Lowell
We two, how long we were fool’d,
Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes,
We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return,
We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark,
We are bedded in the ground, we are rocks,
We are oaks, we grow in the openings side by side,
We browse, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any,
We are two fishes swimming in the sea together,
We are what locust blossoms are, we drop scent around lanes mornings and evenings,
We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals,
We are two predatory hawks, we soar above and look down,
We are two resplendent suns, we it is who balance ourselves orbic and stellar, we are as two comets,
We prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods, we spring on prey,
We are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead,
We are seas mingling, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling over each other and interwetting each other,
We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious, impervious,
We are snow, rain, cold, darkness, we are each product and influence of the globe,
We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we two,
We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy.
We Two, How Long We Were Fool’d, Walt Whitman
Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile – the winds –
To a heart in port –
Done with the compass –
Done with the chart!
Rowing in Eden –
Ah, the sea!
Might I moor – Tonight –
In thee!
Wild Nights—Wild Nights! (249), Emily Dickinson
Derek Guy on pantalones chinos.
« Quand une personne a vraiment atteint la capacité de créer, son unique devoir est de manifester cette puissance à l’écart des attentes et des jugements. » (Forough Farrokhzâd (1935-1967))
via Librarie Petite Egypte
Perhaps life is a choked moment where my gaze
annihilates itself inside in the pupils of your eyes—
?????I will mingle that sensation with my grasp
?????of the moon and comprehension of darkness.In a room the size of loneliness,
my heart’s the size of love.
It contemplates its simple pretexts for happiness:
the beauty of the flowers’ wilting in a vase,the sapling you planted in our garden,
Reborn, Forugh Farrokhzad. Translated By Sholeh Wolpé
and the canaries’ song—the size of a window.
Behind his project lay the understanding that social life is “a seamless web, a single inconceivable and transindividual process, in which there is no need to invent ways of linking language events and social upheavals or economic contradictions because on that level they were never separate from one another” Benjamin Kunkel on Fredric Jameson.
Lee Friedlander, Life Still. (Aperture)
Six Photographers on Lee Friedlander’s Timeless Influence.
No one really dies in the myths.
No world is lost in the stories.
Everything is lost in the retelling,
in being wondered at. We grow up
and grow old in our land of grass
and blood moons, births and goneness.
We live our myth in the recurrence,
pretending we will return another day.
Like the morning coming every morning.
The truth is we come back as a choir.
Otherwise Eurydice would be forever
in the dark. Our singing brings her
back. Our dying keeps her alive.
The Singers Change, the Music Goes On, Linda Gregg
What things are steadfast? Not the birds.
Not the bride and groom who hurry
in their brevity to reach one another.
The stars do not blow away as we do.
The heavenly things ignite and freeze.
But not as my hair falls before you.
Fragile and momentary, we continue.
Fearing madness in all things huge
and their requiring. Managing as thin light
on water. Managing only greetings
and farewells. We love a little, as the mice
huddle, as the goat leans against my hand.
As the lovers quickening, riding time.
Making safety in the moment. This touching
home goes far. This fishing in the air.
We Manage Most When We Manage Small, Linda Gregg
What am I if not what happens
when I try to run away?
Water falls out of me like
an opinion. I’m like a screen
door banging between two rivers.
Dear air, what’s inside me
you’re so desperate to take?
I put on the Atlantic like a sweater.
My head bobs on the surface
of a lake I’m named after.
Where do I belong?
My head asks. My body,
exasperated, answers.
Ode on Humidity, P. Scott Cunningham (Poetry, April 2026)