- Daniel Blumin played the Teardrop Explodes' song below these bullets this past Sunday evening putting what is certainly one of my five favorite songs ever (it's below the poem) in my head so I rang up a $50 donation in his name and entered the above photo of Rosie into the Mascot Contest. Photo by me. The contest will be decided by a random drawing I'm led to believe, so if a Rosie photo by me beats a Fleabus photo by Planet or visa versa it's a simple luck of the draw.
- Liberalism and Gentrification in DC. This is MOCO's plan for Wheaton and Glenmont too.
- Now why would rich private donors buy surveillance technology for police departments? Thinking.... thinking.....
- The Hollow Men 1260.
- There were never deadly snakes at Glen Echo Park.
- Fish is alive? On standards.
- RIP Carolyn Kizer.
- RIP Carolyn Kizer.
- Poetry, Grossman, and the Autism Spectrum.
- Allen Grossman, for those of you who do.
- Bonnie Prince Billy: an interview.
- Yes, it's E.E. Cummings birthday, post later today, get requests in now or, alternatively, don't. Olaf is the free bingo square, btw.
At a party I spy a handsome psychiatrist,
And wish, as we all do, to get her advice for free.
Doctor, I’ll say, I’m supposed to be a poet.
All life’s awfulness has been grist to me.
We learn that happiness is a Chinese meal,
While sorrow is a nourishment forever.
My new environment is California Dreamer.
I’m fearful I’m forgetting how to brood.
And, Doctor, another thing has got me worried:
I’m not drinking as much as I should . . .
At home, I want to write a happy poem
On love, or a love poem of happiness.
But they won’t do, the tensions of every day,
The rub, the minor abrasions of any two
Who share one space. Ah, there’s no substitute for tragedy!
But in this chapter, tragedy belongs
To that other life, the old life before us.
Here is my aphorism of the day:
Happy people are monogamous.
Even in California. So how does the poem play
Without the paraphernalia of betrayal and loss?
I don’t have a jealous eye or fear
And neither do you. In truth, I’m fond
Of your ex-mate, whom I name “my wife-in-law.”
My former husband, that old disaster, is now just funny,
So laugh we do, in what Cyril Connolly
Has called the endless, nocturnal conversation
Of marriage. Which may be the best part.
Darling, must I love you in light verse
Without the tribute of profoundest art?
Of course it won’t last. You will break my heart
Or I yours, by dying. I could weep over that.
But now it seems forced, here in these heaven hills,
The mourning doves mourning, the squirrels mating,
My old cat warm in my lap, here on our terrace
As from below comes a musical cursing
As you mend my favorite plate. Later of course
I could pick a fight; there is always material in that.
But we don’t come from fighting people, those
Who scream out red-hot iambs in their hate.
No, love, the heavy poem will have to come
From temps perdu, fertile with pain, or perhaps
Detonated by terrors far beyond this place
Where the world rends itself, and its tainted waters
Rise in the east to erode our safety here.
Much as I want to gather a lifetime thrift
And craft, my cunning skills tied in a knot for you,
There is only this useless happiness as gift.