December 2011
20 posts
Louise Glück, "Early December in Croton-on-Hudson"
poetryeater:
Spiked sun. The Hudson Whittled down by ice. I hear the bone dice Of blown gravel clicking. Bone- pale, the recent snow Fastens like fur to the river. Standstill. We were leaving to deliver Christmas presents when the tire blew Last year. Above the dead valves pines pared Down by a storm stood, limbs bared … I want you.
Wallace Stevens, "The Snow Man"
poetryeater:
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is...
Jorge Luis Borges, "That One"
poetryeater:
Oh days consecrated to the useless office of forgetting the biography of a lesser poet from the hemisphere below, to whom the shades or the stars bequeathed a body that leaves behind no son and blindness, penumbra and prison, and old age, aurora of death, and fame, which nobody deserves, and the habit of devising hendecasyllabics and an old love of encyclopedias and of fine...
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