What’s gone is gone.
What’s lost is lost.
What’s felt as pulse–
what’s mind, what’s home.
Who’s here, where’s there–
what’s patience now.
What thought of all,
why echo it.
Now to begin–
Why fear the end.
Month: October 2013
a tanka: the angel bounce: for RK
watch the angel bounce
her hands gesticulating
between rows of desks
flowers sprout along her path
the sun lives within her smile
on reading books by Ezra Pound
“No man understands a deep book until he has seen and lived at least part of its contents.”
on writing by John Updike
“When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little east of Kansas. I think of books on library shelves, without their jackets, years old, and a countryish teen-aged boy finding them, and having them speak to him. The reviews, the stacks in Brentano’s, are just hurdles to get over, to place the books on that shelf.”
on writing by Erica Jong
“Writing is one of the few professions left where you take all the responsibility for what you do. It’s really dangerous and ultimately destroys you as a writer if you start thinking about responses to your work or what your audience needs.”
empty rooms of the heart: for Frank
the wind blows through rooms
it chills whoever sits there
shadows on the walls
frozen in time forever
like my heart now that you’re gone
on self-centered young men
impress the young girls
raised on romantic movies
self-centered young men
bloated on their own egos
in borrowed fashion statements
they can talk the talk
in caressing vocal tones
intellect barren
originality lost
words as empty as they are
The Solea by Federico Garcia Lorca
Dressed in black mantles,
she thinks the world is tiny
and the heart immense.
Dressed in black mantles.
She thinks the loving sigh
and the cry disappear
on the currents of the wind.
Dressed in black mantles.
The balcony was left open
and at dawn the whole sky
emptied onto the balcony.
Ay yayayayay,
dressed in black mantles!
The Six Strings by Federico Garcia Lorca
The guitar
makes dreams weep.
The sobbing of lost
souls
escapes through its round
mouth.
And like the tarantula
it spins a large star
to trap the sighs
floating in its black,
wooden water tank.
translated by Carlos Bauer
Speech by Robert Creeley
Simple things
one wants to say
like, what’s the day
like, out there–
who am I
and where.
Leonard Durso 