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rejectomorphYesterday there was a haze in the air and vague clouds. Overnight they joined up and today was mostly cloudy, though the sun occasionally emerged and turned sections of slate clouds brilliantly white. With afternoon a wind arose and I went to the stores through a landscape of dancing trees. Now that I'm home and ready to write an entry, I'm hearing thunder and seeing flashes of lightning as the ground turns dark and shiny with fresh rain.
I'll have to be quick about it, as I don't want to leave the computer on during a thunderstorm, but I don't want to wait until later because I don't know how long the storm will last, and I have other things to do tonight. I doubt that the rain will amount to much, but one never knows. Maybe it will be sufficient to give the lawns a few more days of green. Anyway, I'm glad to see it, thunderstorm or not.
Sunday Verse
by Albert Goldbarth
If you write a poem about love ...
the love is a bird,
the poem is an origami bird.
If you write a poem about death ...
the death is a terrible fire,
the poem is an offering of paper cutout flames
you feed to the fire.
We can see, in these, the space between
our gestures and the power they address
—an insufficiency. And yet a kind of beauty,
a distinctly human beauty. When a winter storm
from out of nowhere hit New York one night
in 1892, the crew at a theater was caught
unloading props: a box
of paper snow for the Christmas scene got dropped
and broken open, and that flash of white
confetti was lost
inside what it was a praise of
I'll have to be quick about it, as I don't want to leave the computer on during a thunderstorm, but I don't want to wait until later because I don't know how long the storm will last, and I have other things to do tonight. I doubt that the rain will amount to much, but one never knows. Maybe it will be sufficient to give the lawns a few more days of green. Anyway, I'm glad to see it, thunderstorm or not.
Sunday Verse
Human Beauty
by Albert Goldbarth
If you write a poem about love ...
the love is a bird,
the poem is an origami bird.
If you write a poem about death ...
the death is a terrible fire,
the poem is an offering of paper cutout flames
you feed to the fire.
We can see, in these, the space between
our gestures and the power they address
—an insufficiency. And yet a kind of beauty,
a distinctly human beauty. When a winter storm
from out of nowhere hit New York one night
in 1892, the crew at a theater was caught
unloading props: a box
of paper snow for the Christmas scene got dropped
and broken open, and that flash of white
confetti was lost
inside what it was a praise of
