Archives for category: art

autoharp2To read this story, go to:


atlantes“An excellent answer, by the dog, Hippias; and such a one as cannot fail of being applauded. Shall I then, in answering thus, have answered the question asked me? and that so well as to not be refuted?” [Text apparently intended to accompany this image discovered nearly by accident on page 153 of “Plato: On the Beautiful,” from Readings in Philosophy, Randall, Buchler & Shirk, eds., Barnes & Noble, New York, 1950, reprinted 1961, a book previously owned by Patricia Flood, signed and dated 10-20-62 and purchased, as she notes, at Scrantom’s in Rochester. Original price $1.95. Repurchased by me, significantly later, probably at a tag sale, who knows where, perhaps from Patricia herself, fifteen cents. To find out whatever happened to Scrantom’s, click here.]

ashur2Ah, but it seems so obvious, placing the sky god at the pinnacle. Even with their flounced skirts and chic facial hair, the Assyrians were far too literal. Let’s hear from the ant god, the worm god, the warrior king of the snail. Put the periwinkle god at the center of your winged disc. That would be worth considering.

astroid2To read this piece, go to:

arpeggioTo read this story, go here:

arabesqueA decorative style. Yes. Also in ballet. Commands embedded deep in my amygdala issue forth in our teacher’s voice. “Weight on front foot, other foot back with pointed toe just touching floor, knee rotated out, one arm extended up at angle, one arm extended down at angle, all angles correct, eye fixed on raised hand. And hold.” Even now, fifty years later, if anyone within earshot happens to say this word, it’s hard to keep my body from displaying automatic obedience. Okay, I just stood up and did one.

anticipationIn the moment between two moments. First you hear what your poem wants to say, how it is rapidly assembling itself in space and time from every street corner and sand pile and treetop. It is hard to keep up, the poem is talking so fast. Something about blue jay feathers you found in the yard last summer, about the way horseshoe crabs molt their shells under a new moon, about your father 20 years dead and that coat of his still hanging in your closet. Outside, in the storm, your landlord has revved up the snowblower. And snow, there is something about snow. Everywhere your poem is making itself, you can feel it inside you like song. It tastes right here like the tip of your pencil. This is the first moment. The second moment is coming, once the inevitable last word surrenders to form and the poem ceases to speak to you and instead begins to speak to everyone else. Between these two moments, the days and weeks and months and years between, is where you live, where your work lies, where you can’t make the poem sing, where you must make it sing.