I In the islet’s museum there is a twisted wine bottle, crusted with fool’s gold from the iron- cold depth below the redoubt. It has been listed variously by experts: one, that a galleon blown by a hurricane out of Cartagena, this far...
As I’m reading Omeros, I’ve also been reading a bit about Derek Walcott, curious about his life an influences and such. This piece from Caribbean Beat has some interesting details. It seems he lived in Boston for some years, teaching at...
A little Tuesday evening dinner-time rabbit trail. (One of the boys asked how often we end up looking things up during dinner, the answer: quite often. We can’t abide by the no phones at the table rule because things must be googled and read...
Scaffolding by Seamus Heaney Masons, when they start upon a building, Are careful to test out the scaffolding; Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points, Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints. And yet all this comes down when the job’s...
“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?”...
by Pablo Neruda translated by W. S. Merwin Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, “The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.” The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write...
Sally Thomas, poet and homeschooling mom, recently recorded a podcast about teaching poetry, The Mason Jar #17: Sally Thomas on Poetry. It’s well worth a listen. I always love Sally’s thoughts about teaching and about poetry and...
A poem which is currently taped to the cupboard above the toaster oven. Has been for at least six months. I still haven’t managed to memorize it, but I’ve spent some time pondering it, at least. To hear an Oriole sing May be a common...
an excerpt from the Flight into Egypt section of For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio by W.H. Auden I posted this two years ago and fell in love with it and went and bought the book. And I still haven’t finished reading the whole thing...
by Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh He can still hear it: the glaciers rasping, their ratcheting in the distance, the snow-quiet. And still he remembers gulping unsullied freshness to clarify his lungs, the holy coldness blessing his skin. He gave his...
