At BaiaI should have thought ( Read more... )

I am a little world made cunninglyI am a little world made cunningly ( Read more... )

Whoso list to huntWhoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind ( Read more... )

Letter to a Mute

If I could reach you now, in any way
At all, I would say this to you:
This afternoon I walked into a thicket

Of gold flowers that had no idea
What they were after. They couldn't hear a thing.
I walked among a million small, deaf ears

Breaking their gold into the afternoon.
I think they were like you, golden, golden,
Unable to express a ( Read more... )

An excerpt from Stephen Kuusisto’s "Night Song" (published in Short Takes: Brief Encounters with Contemporary NonfictionA blind kid rarely sleeps. Small blind people hear a hundred sounds and learn early to make analogies ( Read more... )

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Jacqueline du Pré is just the best. Watching her play is like watching sun and shadow and wind move across water.

... I love flowers I’d love to have the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven there’s nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and the waves rushing then the beautiful country with fields of oats and wheat and all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about that would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers ( Read more... )

 
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(Carrion Comfort)

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist-slack they may be-these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can ( Read more... )

One

WE DASH THE BLACK RIVER, ITS flats smooth as stone. Not a ship, not a dinghy, not one cry of white. The water lies broken, cracked from the wind. This great estuary is wide, endless. The river is brackish, blue with the cold. It passes beneath us blurring. The sea birds hang above it, they wheel, disappear. We flash the wide river, a dream of ( Read more... )