The Leaf and the Tree

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

When will you learn, myself, to be
a dying leaf on a living tree?
Budding, swelling, growing strong,
Wearing green, but not for long,
Drawing sustenance from air,
That other leaves, and you not there,
May bud, and at the autumn’s call
Wearing russet, ready to fall?
Has not this trunk a deed to do
Unguessed by small and tremulous you?
Shall not these branches in the end
To wisdom and the truth ascend?
And the great lightning plunging by
Look sidewise with a golden eye
To glimpse a tree so tall and proud
It sheds its leaves upon a cloud?

Here, I think, is the heart’s grief:
The tree, no mightier than the leaf,
Makes firm its root and spreads it crown
And stands; but in the end comes down.
That airy top no boy could climb

Is trodden in a little time
By cattle on their way to drink.
The fluttering thoughts a leaf can think,
That hears the wind and waits its turn,
Have taught it all a tree can learn.
Time can make soft that iron wood.
The tallest trunk that ever stood,
In time, without a dream to keep,
Crawls in beside the root to sleep. 

Cicero (via wwnorton)
thepenguinpress:

decorativehandles:

How I love thee, Thomas Pynchon. Let me count the ways…

Mud-wrestling in your underwear is the new Oprah’s Book Club, didn’t you know?

Relevant: 

thepenguinpress:

decorativehandles:

How I love thee, Thomas Pynchon. Let me count the ways…

Mud-wrestling in your underwear is the new Oprah’s Book Club, didn’t you know?

Relevant: 

The Jumblies

by Edward Lear


I

They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
  In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day,
  In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, ‘You’ll all be drowned!’
They called aloud, ‘Our Sieve ain’t big,
But we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig!
  In a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’
      Far and few, far and few,
            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

II

They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
  With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
  To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
‘O won’t they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it’s extremely wrong
  In a Sieve to sail so fast!’
      Far and few, far and few,
            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

III

The water it soon came in, it did,
  The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
  And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, ‘How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
  While round in our Sieve we spin!’
      Far and few, far and few,
            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

IV

And all night long they sailed away;
  And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
  In the shade of the mountains brown.
‘O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
  In the shade of the mountains brown!’
      Far and few, far and few,
            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

V

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
  To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
  And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
  And no end of Stilton Cheese.
      Far and few, far and few,
            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

VI

And in twenty years they all came back,
  In twenty years or more,
And every one said, ‘How tall they’ve grown!
For they’ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
  And the hills of the Chankly Bore!’
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And every one said, ‘If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,—-
  To the hills of the Chankly Bore!’
      Far and few, far and few,
            Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
      Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
            And they went to sea in a Sieve.

Eulogy

by Brian Turner

It happens on
a Monday, at 11:20
A.M.,

as tower guards eat
sandwiches

and seagulls drift by
on the Tigris River.

Prisoners tilt their
heads to the west

though burlap sacks
and duct tape blind
them.

The sound
reverberates down
concertina coils

the way piano wire
thrums when given,
slack.

And it happens like
this, on a blue day of
sun,

when Private Miller
pulls the trigger

to take brass and fire
into his mouth

the sound lifts the
birds up off the water,

a mongoose pauses
under the orange
trees,

and nothing can stop
it now, no matter
what

blur of motion
surrounds him, no
matter what voices

crackle over the radio
in static confusion,

because if only for
this moment the
earth is stilled,

and Private Miller has
found what low hush
there is

down in the
eucalyptus shade,
there by the river.

PFC B. Miller

(1980-March 22, 2004)

(Source: NPR)

Thinking About Illness After Reading About Tennessee Fainting Goats

by Lucia Perillo

Maybe they’re brethren, these beasts bred clumsy,  
hobbling stiff-legged over cheatgrass tufts.  
Prized for how they’ll freeze unpredictably  
then fall, rehearsing their overwrought deaths.  
Sometimes it’s the woman who brings the meal  
who sets them off by wearing yellow slacks,  
or sometimes the drumming a certain wheel  
makes on the road’s washboard. Stopped in their tracks  
they go down like drunks: Daisy and Willow  
drop always in tandem, while Boot will lean
his fat side first against the hog-hut door.
How cruel, gripes a friend. But maybe they show 
us what the body’s darker fortunes mean –  
we break, we rise. We do what we’re here for.

The Strange Hours Travelers Keep
by August Kleinzahler


The markets never rest
Always they are somewhere in agitation
Pork bellies, titanium, winter wheat
Electromagnetic ether peppered with photons
Treasure spewing from Unisys A-15 J mainframes
Across the firmament
Soundlessly among the thunderheads and passenger jets
As they make their nightlong journeys
Across the oceans and steppes

Nebulae, incandescent frog spawn of information
Trembling in the claw of Scorpio
Not an instant, then shooting away
Like an enormous cloud of starlings
Garbage scows move slowly down the estuary
The lights of the airport pulse in morning darkness
Food trucks, propane, tortured hearts
The reticent epistemologist parks
Gets out, checks the curb, reparks
Thunder of jets
Peristalsis of great capitals
How pretty in her tartan scarf
Her ruminative frown
Ambiguity and Reason
Locked in a slow, ferocious tango
Of if not, why not

Bent Tones

by C.D. Wright

There was a dance at the black school.
In the shot houses people were busy. 

A woman washed her boy in a basin, sucking
a cube of ice to get the cool. 

The sun drove a man in the ground like a stake.
Before his short breath climbed the kitchen’s steps 

She skipped down the walk in a clean dress.
Bad meat on the counter. In the sky, broken glass. 

When the local hit the trestle everything trembled —
The trees she blew out of, the shiver owl, 

Lights next door — With her fast eye
She could see Floyd Little
Changing his shirt for the umpteenth time.

Illiterate Progenitor

by Mary Karr

My father lived so far from the page

       the only mail he got was marked Occupant.

              The century had cored him with its war, and he paid

                     bills in person, believed in flesh and the family plan.

In that house of bookish females, his glasses slid on

       for fishing lures and carburetor work,

              the obits, my report cards, the scores.

                     He was otherwise undiluted by the written word.

At a card table, his tales could entrance a ring of guys

       till each Timex paused against each pulse,

              and they’d stare like schoolboys even as he wiped

                     from the center the green bills anted up.

Come home. I’m lonely, he wrote in undulating script. I’d left

       to scale each distant library’s marble steps like Everest

              till I was deaf to the wordlessness

                     he was mired in, which drink made permanent.

He took his smoke unfiltered, milk unskimmed.

       He liked his steaks marbled, fatback on mustard greens,

              onions eaten like apples, split turnips dipped

                     into rock salt, hot-pepper vinegar on black beans.

(Source: newyorker.com)