“Between the stirrup and the ground, he something sought and something found,” says Pinkie to Rose in Graham Greene’s novel, “Brighton Rock.”
@NorthDakotaJane
's redemption poetry could be described as a sustained meditation on that metaphor..
IMO, “erasure poetry” is not poetry in any way. And to destroy someone else’s writing—or, God forbid, poem—and then call the leftover words a new “poem” is pure philistinism.
Fight me.
Yesterday I broke my femur. I don’t have the energy to tell the stupid story on here. I’m in the hospital, am scheduled for surgery tomorrow, and would welcome your prayers. Bless you.
You can love a man, marry him, live with him for 37 years, think you know him—and still be surprised at what he’s made of when he must suddenly become your caretaker, putting on thousands of inside steps each day and cheerfully performing previously unthinkable acts of service.
Yes, I know that Diane Seuss won the 2022 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, but this is not only NOT a sonnet, it is not any kind of poetry at all. It is prose.
I’m still slack-jawed at the overwhelming Twitter response to the little anniversary poem I tweeted two days ago. It was my 15 minutes of fame! I kept giving my husband updates on the likes and retweets, and because he’s mean, he suggested that I tweet this poem next.
For St. Patrick’s Day I offer a far-from-saintly Irish poet and what my heart, mind, and ear consider one of the most perfect poems of all time. Nearly every line is packed tight with truth and beauty. It’s more than a century old and describes post-WWI Europe—but also 2023….
Yoda was a very, very good girl, an anomaly: a calm, non-barking, slender, long-legged, sun-worshipping chihuahua. Her body started to shut down several days ago. She stopped eating and drinking. We couldn’t get any meds into her. She died early this morning in Mr. W’s lap.
I am giddy with the beauty of the cover art for my book (out in October). I think it screams, “Even if you hate poetry, YOU MUST HAVE ME BECAUSE I’M RAVISHINGLY GORGEOUS.”
HAPPY DANCE! Two of my poems are out in the excellent
@ChroniclesMagazine
after their acceptance by its excellent poetry editor, Catharine Savage Brosman. Here’s one, which also happens to be the opening poem in my most recent collection, The World as We Know It Is Falling Away.
“Do you think of writing as a spiritual act at its core?” That’s the interviewer’s question to poet Marie Howe in the January 11, 2018 issue of The Millions. Here’s her answer:
NO. I want journals that publish only what they consider the very best work they receive. Period. Whomever it comes from. Also, journals should not be “safe spaces” and writers should not be looking for “safe spaces.” Art is dangerous. Send it out into the real world bravely.
@LeePottsPoet
The *source* writer/poet decides what to put in and leave out. That’s creativity. Destroying that and making something new with the remains: not the thing same at all.
On Zillow, I found a 2021 listing of the house I lived in from age 9 to 17. This photo is my old bedroom. My dad built the wall-to-wall dresser/desk in 1963. 60 years, and it’s still standing—and still has its original laminate top! Good solid craftsmanship, Dad!
This is the house where I lived at ages 9-17. In the photo is my childhood-and-forever friend, my first friend at this house. I remember “helping” my dad plant the tiny sapling in our front yard. Oh, my. This aging thing brings out a wild mess of mixed feelings.
I fretted in a wheelchair for FOUR MONTHS, never touching my left leg to the floor, and today, one week after PT began, I am walking (with my walker) through the house. Glory to God for the incomprehensible, intricate magnificence of the human body and its self-healing abilities.
I volunteered at the monastery today. There was chocolate cake and they hospitably offered me a piece. (Benedictines are all about hospitality.) This is a Sister-sized piece of cake in a tiny bowl. Oh, how I love my moderate Benedictines. I shall try to make it last.
The great poet Rhina Espaillat (whom I’m proud to have published in the 1980s) on how keeping busy might help us make “a truce with time / spent in the lifelong practice of despair.”
Received the interior page proofs of my book today. God willin’ and the crick don’t rise, the book will be out in October. I titled it with holiday gift-giving in mind.
I’ve been waiting for this and it finally came: my first issue of the great
@walterkirn
’s newest venture! When I removed it from its wrapper, Mr. W—sitting across the room—said, “Ahh! I can smell the newsprint!”
@countyhwy
This is a stellar poem. Hopkins called it a “curtal sonnet.” It has 11 lines, an irregular number of feet per line, and the last line is just a “tail.” Scholars: what was Hopkins thinking? Do WE consider it a sonnet? If we do, what makes it a sonnet?
❤️ 36 years ago today, Mr. W and I tied the knot. Here’s a poem I wrote last year; it comes close to capturing at least some of his wonderfulness. ❤️
#TopTweetTuesday
@dkrauthammer
Your father was on a very short list of people I’d love to spend a long morning of coffee and conversation with. Or a long evening of drinking and conversation. The whole world misses him in a way that can only approximate your loss. May God bless and comfort you and your mother.
A man asked a priest: “If God is everywhere, why go to church?”
The priest replied: “Earth’s entire atmosphere is filled with water, but when you’re thirsty you go to a well or a fountain.”
@Joseph_Fasano_
Oh. This was a little misleading. I was jumping out of my skin with excitement until I saw that you had provided the framework and she had just filled in words. Still, nice job.
I was clearing out a closet today and came across a copy of The Yale Literary Review—from exactly 40 years ago—containing these two poems of mine. A pleasant end to a labor-intensive task.
Another ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️. Combine “Babette’s Feast” with, well, I can’t think offhand of a comparable love story. Throw in the most beautiful woman in the universe, Juliette Binoche. Make time slow down and then stand still. End with a quote from St. Augustine.
Lovely heavier & whiter paper stock on
@countyhwy
Issue
#2
! Great feel. Add to that the writing of
@walterkirn
and the rest of the staff and I’m one happy North Dakota girl this afternoon.
The best New Year’s Eve of my entire life was when I was 8. My cousin babysat us while my parents went out. She made a noodle come out of her nose. I got to stay up as late as I wanted. We watched The Saint and The Flintstones and saw the ball drop. Nothing since has compared.
Today is the 2-year anniversary of my femur-breaking fall. The ordeal was awful. I’ll never be what I was before. It was also a blessing—because I’ll never be what I was before. I know so much more now about God’s grace, and the people who love me, and myself. Deo gratias!