The Young Dead Soldiers, by Archibald MacLeish The young dead soldiers do not speak. Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses: who has not heard them? They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts. They say: We were young. We have died. Remember us. They say: We … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Archibald MacLeish
How to Make a Poetry Hut First, read through some of the thousands of poems you’ve copied down over the years. Do not be surprised when you end up spending the entire morning doing this. Find this one, by Hafiz: With that Moon Language Admit something: Everyone you see, you say to them, “Love me.” … Continue reading The Poetry Hut
God Says Yes to Me – Kaylin Haught I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic and she said yes I asked her if it was okay to be short and she said it sure is I asked her if I could wear nail polish or not wear nail polish and she … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Kaylin Haught
A while back, a friend handed you a mix cd, one of many he gave you over the years. Since you can remember disliking exactly one song out of the more than 20,000 that you must have heard in this friend’s presence you stuck it right in the car cd slot and turned the volume … Continue reading The last Andes mint: Jon Dee Graham.
Winter Stars – Sara Teasdale I went out at night alone; The young blood flowing beyond the sea Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings— I bore my sorrow heavily. But when I lifted up my head From shadows shaken on the snow, I saw Orion in the east Burn steadily as long ago. … Continue reading Andes Mint #30: Poem of the Week, by Sara Teasdale
At the beginning of the Minneapolis summer (qualified as “Minneapolis” summer because this year it began about three weeks ago), I decided to re-read my favorite and most influential books from childhood. The ones I hadn’t already re-read more than once, that is, including: 1. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith. 2. My … Continue reading Andes Mint #29: "This that I see now."
It was many years ago that I met K. In my memory, she came up to me in one of the marble-floored halls of a turreted building on the east bank of the University of Minnesota, took my hands in hers, and said, “I’m K. Who are you?” That memory has to be wrong, but … Continue reading Andes Mint #28: My magical friend K
Objects, Memory and Meaning
If it can't be said in a hundred words, then it can't be said in a thousand.
sewing a handmade wardrobe
drink from the well of your self and begin again. -Charles Bukowski
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Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
Thoughts on the world around me
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