Don't get me wrong, I'm also pissed that I can't run outside and go on picnics at the beach etc. but I can't do those things M-F anyway, and I still hate it when it rains during the week.
Things I will not do right now: link to that "Shoes" video that was going around a couple of years ago. It really wasn't that funny.
I made miso soup for dinner. The miso paste was $10. Is it a nonrenewable resource? Geez. This is part of my mission to eat more fermented food. Aside from yogurt, there don't seem to be many fermented foods I can incorporate into my near-daily diet. I mean I'm not going to pile kimchi on everything I eat. I'm not that kind of girl.
Yesterday and this morning on the train I read a Reginald Shepherd chapbook that John Gallaher sent me shortly after the former's death; I'm only just now getting around to it. I read the first few poems over again several times, not something I usually do (I echo Chris Higgs' sentiments on abandonment). Could I be getting more patient? I liked these lines:
searching out what. The highway says No historyand so forth. The bit I really like is that "it's dead. It's dead." Something about the short repetition, a kind of stutter, both sonically and visually, it's one of those "moves" I fall for again and again. Chris Tonelli wrote a poem a long time ago that began with the line "Primitive image, image" something something, and it comes to me a lot.
here, a doe dozes beside the asphalt, or else
it's dead. It's dead. They line up single file
to cross the road, the first one waits
until the next one crosses. Look left,
look right, look left. The poems about nature
Roadkill, too. It's a poem cliche, but one I enjoy.
The first poem in the book includes a line from a Mariah Carey song ("Then a hero comes along"). Remember how young Mariah Carey was? In the past? My nostalgia knows no bounds.
As promised, a David Shapiro poem. It's from a 1983 book called To an Idea, a title I loooove. I wish I'd come up with it first. Probably the #1 reason I find a poem forgettable or abandon it is a lack of ideas. I hate when poetry has no ideas.
These poems too I find very re-readable. His sense of the line reminds me a little of Mary Jo Bang. Here's one I like despite all the similes (not my fave).
A host of golden pencils
and MIND a quarterly review
I see you like roses on television
crouching with thoughts about this obscure life
Lagging behind like frost on the window
while others are at the core of a vista
as if police could be summoned for this sad soul
with the worn-out look of a grafted rose
On the window sill the window birds
fan their wings to the air-conditioner
after a specious summer interval
and Heifetz plays Le Plus que Lent
We were the higher ones
and the travesty you can never forget
To be followed by shining blackberries
It was certainly a peaceful walk with only the occasional shepherd
Now the worst of not being a botanist
Was this, for instance, the end of my poor plant?
Like a pot in which the rose is received
By enemies of the rose.
no sweeter by the site of its celestial resume
The Scherzo Tarantelle is finished
The reference to Enrico Fermi on a little boat is hard to forget.