In these days of Corvid-19, the poet finds heisself even more isolated than usual. The garret becomes a cell. The muse, a Siren, a witch call, an emptiness. For those, especially, who enjoy sharing their music, this is a torture. Poets are social beings too! So it is with great pleasure that Lee finds himself … Continue reading Poetry in the Days of Corvid-19
I have two things and a wife, a triumvirate of something within the all order of my life. The mind with its own triumvirate of imagination, thought and memory wants—no demands— a going forth into a new gathering and brooks no traverse of its seek for scraps and litter along the way. It brings me … Continue reading Of Three
He waits in this empty room for a poem or perhaps, here in this garret, a thought from God. The room’s light casts back at him a mask, half in light, one eye—bright enough from shadows, a room where there is a this and an is: coffee mug on a desk, desk cluttered but solid … Continue reading The Isolate
There is nothing green, more or less, about winter; nor more or less black and white. The black of these blue mountains shadow down our yellow valley winter (summer, spring and fall.) The red dusk and dawn prophecy more or less tells the weather of our each new day a hope winter (summer, spring and … Continue reading The Green of Winter is Gray
It’s on the left and bent left, damned thing, by a shape of my vanity’s blue boot. Am I not left enough? Behind these blue boots are rough unsuede shoes— would have marched to Selma in my fashion-faded denim red; but something else was going on that day. It wasn’t bunions or anybody’s else’s business … Continue reading Bunions
If Freddy Parchinee had not been searching for the truth, he probably would not have found it, and we would all have peace and quiet around here. I guess I should blame God, since He made it what it was and because He, in all his off-the-cross glory, was the truth Freddy expected to find, … Continue reading What is There to See on a Sagebrush and Prickly Pear Sidehill?
Old Morley wasn’t ashes yet. But he soon would be. The joke was Old Morely was gonna burn twice, once in the Crematory Oven, and again in perpetuity in the Devil’s Workshop. Bishop Odner was not pleased about the joke or the idea of anybody—even somebody as recalcitrant as Morley Brigham—having their God-given body burned. … Continue reading The Burning of Morel Brigham
Whether or not Wallace Stevens idea in Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird was our dependency on perception when we shape our ideas of the word is not for me to say. But having precepted the poem, that is how I see it.
Scene: a bus stop, January, snowing, windy. Three people huddle in the small shelter. They are strangers to one another, though they have met here before. The winter-pale youth is thumbing his phone. The large African woman in blue jeans and a quilt coat is reading. The ambiguously fleshed old man, to whom they have … Continue reading A Tiff on Frost and the Rapper, Drake
What I could see, my ears waxed against the maelstrom of their song, were skimpy hags. I, who had seen fools die to gold a twat’s beguile, could see nothing there to turn for; though the mast-bound Captain made urgent motion to till shoreward, the last I’d heard, before the silence, was “disregard,” “maintain” his … Continue reading Odysseus’s Helmsman