I am in here.
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore — And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over — like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode? — Langston … Continue reading Dream Deferred
I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. “Sit down and have a drink” he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. “You have SARDINES in it.” “Yes, … Continue reading Why I Am Not a Painter
A white coat worn over a violet waistcoat. Duck eggs. Shaved ice mixed with liana syrup and put in a new silver bowl. A rosary of rock crystal. Wistaria blossoms. Plum blossoms covered with snow. A pretty child eating strawberries. — The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon, tr. Ivan Morris
ISSA ARCHIVE SEARCH RESULTS 1818 おのづから頭の下たるぼたん哉 onozukara zu no sagaritaru botan kana by itself my head bows… peony! Or: “the head.” Issa bows to the peony. More accurately, “the head, by itself” is bowing without conscious intention on the part of the poet. For this reason, I first translated zu no sagaritaru literally as “the … Continue reading Today's bit from Issa
white pebble 