A Tidings of Magpies

by Sharon Olds I've said that he and I had been crazy for each other, but maybe my ex and I were not crazy for each other. Maybe we were sane for each other, as if our desire was almost not even personal— it was personal, but that hardly mattered, since there seemed to be no other woman or man in the world. Maybe it was an arranged marriage, air and water and earth had planned us for each other—and fire, a fire of pleasure like a violence of kindness. To enter those vaults together, like a solemn or laughing couple in formal step or writhing hair and cry, seemed to me like the earth's and moon's paths, inevitable, and even, in a way, shy—enclosed in a shyness together, equal in it. But maybe I was crazy about him—it is true that I saw that light around his head when I'd arrive second at a restaurant—oh for God's sake, I was besotted with him. Meanwhile the planets orbited each other, the morning and the evening c...

Peter Frampton played with the CinCity Ballet yesterday, their last performance of the season. I remember Frampton as the pretty faced, curlied haired man-boy of my college days whose music played in the background on someones radio somewhere. Never bought his music, but I thought this would be an interesting way to spend a Saturday afternoon. It was more than interesting. It was phenomenal. Exuberant. Muscular and athletic. And beautiful. If I can ever find a rendition of Friendly Fire to post, I will post it here. The man knows his way around a broken heart. The dancing that accompanied it has come and gone, but is not forgotten. Like all good heartaches.  http://news.cincinnati.com/article/20130427/ENT07/304270071/Review-Frampton-ballet-mesh-art-forms

Journey by Train by May Sarton Stretched across counties, countries, the train Rushes faster than memory through the rain. The rise of each hill is a musical phrase. Listen to the rhythm of space, how it lies, How it rolls, how it reaches, what unwinding relays Of wood and meadow where the red cows graze Come back again and again to closed eyes— That garden, that pink farm, that village steeple, And here and there the solitary people Who stand arrested when express trains pass, That stillness of an orchard in deep grass. Yet landscapes flow like this toward a place, A point in time and memory's own face. So when the clamor stops, we really climb Down to the earth, closing the curve of time, Meeting those we have left, to those we meet Bringing our whole life that has moved so fast, And now is gathered up and here at last, To unroll like a ribbon at their feet. HoneyedHaired Grrrl should be making her way back home tomorrow, air tr...

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House by Billy Collins The neighbors' dog will not stop barking. He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark that he barks every time they leave the house. They must switch him on on their way out. The neighbors' dog will not stop barking. I close all the windows in the house and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast but I can still hear him muffled under the music, barking, barking, barking, and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra, his head raised confidently as if Beethoven had included a part for barking dog. When the record finally ends he is still barking, sitting there in the oboe section barking, his eyes fixed on the conductor who is entreating him with his baton while the other musicians listen in respectful silence to the famous barking dog solo, that endless coda that first established Beethoven as an innovative genius.

by Grace Paley On certain days I am not in love and my heart turns over crowding the lungs for air driving blood in and out of the skull improving my mind working muscles to the bone dashing resonance out of a roaring sea at my nerve endings Not much is needed air good sense power a noisy taking in and a loud giving back Then my heart like any properly turned motor takes off in sparks dragging all that machinery through the blazing day like grass which our lord knows I am

"...I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered I don’t have a friend who feels at ease I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered Or driven to its knees Oh, but it’s all right, it’s all right For lived so well so long Still, when I think of the road We’re traveling on I wonder what went wrong.I can’t help it, I wonder what’s gone wrong."   My car has a tape player. I know. You can barely find cassettes anymore, certainly not at the library, so when driving long distances I'm forced to hunt through any nooks and crannies I may have cleaned and stored old music. Found a box to throw in the car on this last drive up to Lake Erie with several from Paul Simon, including the concert at Central Park with Art. Still timely after all these years. And, now that I'm home I've suffered 12 hours at work with Simon and Garfunkle earworms in my head. You're welcome. Please note: photo, Lake Erie sunset by Lisa DeJong

The Undeniable Pressure of Existence by Patricia Fargnoli I saw the fox running by the side of the road past the turned-away brick faces of the condominiums past the Citco gas station with its line of cars and trucks and he ran, limping, gaunt, matted dull haired past Jim's Pizza, past the Wash-O-Mat, past the Thai Garden, his sides heaving like bellows and he kept running to where the interstate crossed the state road and he reached it and he ran on under the underpass and beyond it past the perfect rows of split-levels, their identical driveways their brookless and forestless yards, and from my moving car, I watched him, helpless to do anything to help him, certain he was beyond any aid, any desire to save him, and he ran loping on, far out of his element, sick, panting, starving, his eyes fixed on some point ahead of him, some possible salvation in all this hopelessness, that only he could see.