She holds her hands before her face So she cannot see, but feels instead. Her open palms take and gratefully receive Without the barrier of sight. She grows in a sequestered place, Where the dark is warm, Where laughter creeps along the floor And winds through her fingers in ribbons; Where, eyes closed and bathed…
From the Book of Broken Odes Your sadness flutes through dowel holes cut by woodpeckers in flaking sycamores. They flutter bark and call the maple’s sons, the ones as well with sap and weep. And on their tears the mayfly’s tripwire legs alight to sup, its wings still – (flimsy fanatic, hardened heretic) – And…
Here’s to trying to write like Shakespeare! Take a draft of cognac, and proceed with caution. (By the way, I think it’s very useful to write in rigid metrical rhythms. Free verse is so undisciplined that most of the time it’s junk. Compare writing to training for a marathon, or practicing for a piano concerto…
God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. If by God we mean a very particular cake that once gave off a delectable aroma and bestowed a splash of bright, beautiful, and terribly artificial color on a muted winter landscape, then yes, God is dead. And we three (oh, three, that…