David Bowie Quote

“Don’t you love the Oxford Dictionary? When I first read it, I thought it was a really really long poem about everything.”-David Bowie 

Mostly It Is Loss/Our Revels Are Now Ended

For my friend Glen, who died yesterday.

Arthur Schopenhauer Quote

Arthur Schopenhauer Quote

“Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.”-William Shakespeare, The Tempest

[Intermezzo] It is Finally Autumn. Ecstatic Autumn!

It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.

*

It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! In the late afternoon I take my place: curtains open, cup of tea in hand, elbow on windowsill.The sun sets early, beyond the white and dove grey apartment house across the street. The sky is relentlessly pale, diluted even in twilight to a bleak rose or chalky orange: bold colours are too busy dressing the leaves to have anything to spare. It’s their yearly dying wish, one cannot blame them. We have four seasons, they have less. As the masses of crisp leaves move and heave they give off a sound like the cawing of crows. Duncan barks and noses the pane, desperate to be loosed with apocalyptic fervor on these unknown fiends. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind. The sights and smells are fleeting, of this and every other season. Dogs dream of chasing leaves, but will settle for a bone. As for me, I will drink down my tea and write some elegiac words instead.

*

It is finally autumn. Ecstatic autumn! Leaves are swirling and twirling and leaping about with Bacchanalian satisfaction. They are throwing a street party to end all street parties. Death is near, but until then it is a wicked celebration 24/7. Their orange, gold, and dark red forms flee rakes and tumble out of bags. They fall from trees to dance in the gutters and under the bodies of dirty cars. Leaves, so joyous, loll about in moments of repose, only to be bruised and trampled under dogs’ feet or sat upon by careless children. Death is near, and they know it: until then, they will dance on the wind.

Daily Diversion #170: Afternoon Reading with Rolling Stone

Look what hit newsstands today…

Lou Reed/Rolling Stone

Lou Reed/Rolling Stone

I’m about to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea and dig in to the magazine. Laurie Anderson is going to break my heart.

Laurie Anderson/Rolling Stone

Laurie Anderson/Rolling Stone

“For 21 Years We Tangled Our Minds and Hearts Together” by Laurie Anderson. Sigh.

Daily Diversion #116: “Nature” is What We See*

Whenever I hike through the 733 acres of our local cemetery, I have to stifle the compulsion to declaim poetry to an audience of tombstones, trees, and birds. Instead, I turn the words inward, or whisper them under my breath. The shadow-poets I prefer change with the seasons. If winter’s sharp, cold, stinging reach is perfect for Sylvia Plath, then the gloriously still warmth of spring is the natural home for the distilled, profound and subtle Emily Dickinson.

Two graves and wildflowers

Two forlorn graves and clumps of wildflowers are the perfect audience for Emily’s poems.

*“Nature” is what we see” is the opening line from an Emily Dickinson poem.