Showing posts from April, 2013


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

came. And maybe what he had for me

was unconditional, …

Sunday in CinCity. The Baby, I Love Your Way Edition. Everyday.

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.

Saturday in CinCity. The Eastward Ho Edition.

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 traffic controllers willing. Flight arrives at CVG at …

Yeah, It's Been of One of Those Days

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.

Certain Days

by Grace Paley

On certain days I am not in love

and my heart turns over

crowding the lungs for


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


good sense


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

An American Tune

"...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

Dipping a Toe Back In...

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.