Thursday, April 29, 2010

yum

“When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.” – M. F. K. Fisher

(via)

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love
the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are
written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which
cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And
the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps
you will find them gradually, without noticing it, and live along some
distant day into the answer.

- Rilke

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

The Apple Trees at Olema
By Robert Hass

They are walking in the woods along the coast
and in a grassy meadow, wasting, they come upon
two old neglected apple trees. Moss thickened
every bough and the wood of the limbs looked rotten
but the trees were wild with blossom and a green fire
of small new leaves flickered even on the deadest branches.
Blue-eyes, poppies, a scattering of lupine
flecked the meadow, and an intricate, leopard-spotted
leaf-green flower whose name they didn't know.
Trout lily, he said; she said, adder's tongue.
She is shaken by the raw, white, backlit flaring
of the apple blossoms. He is exultant,
as if some thing he felt were verified,
and looks to her to mirror his response.
If it is afternoon, a thin moon of my own dismay
fades like a scar in the sky to the east of them.
He could be knocking wildly at a closed door
in a dream. She thinks, meanwhile, that moss
resembles seaweed drying lightly on a dock.
Torn flesh, it was the repetitive torn flesh
of appetite in the cold white blossoms
that had startled her. Now they seem tender
and where she was repelled she takes the measure
of the trees and lets them in. But he no longer
has the apple trees. This is as sad or happy
as the tide, going out or coming in, at sunset.
The light catching in the spray that spumes up
on the reef is the color of the lesser finch
they notice now flashing dull gold in the light
above the field. They admire the bird together,
it draws them closer, and they start to walk again.
A small boy wanders corridors of a hotel that way.
Behind one door, a maid. Behind another one, a man
in striped pajamas shaving. He holds the number
of his room close to the center of his mind
gravely and delicately, as if it were the key,
and then he wanders among strangers all he wants.

Monday, April 5, 2010

National Poetry Month

April.

my boss just got an iPad


I came across this article in the New York Times today about e-books and the book jacket. I don't know why it's never really crossed my mind, but with the iPad and Kindle and whatever else, we're losing the beauty of a real live book.

I haven't expended much energy thinking about it because, well, I figured I'd just always chose a physical book. My relationship with words on a page is never really going to be in jeopardy.

But (gasp) I forgot about changes rocking the communal aspect of reading. Reading off a uniform electronic tablet eliminates personality, eliminates recognition, eliminates inspiration, eliminates the spread of a good read that's often excited by a quick glance.


I guess we'll see.



(here and here)