In the book I’m writing, a desperate child imagines himself far above the planet, far from the endlessly breaking bad news. He isn’t wired for the constant barrage of awfulness. None of us are. This is why I love and admire people like thirty-three-year-old Chris Smalls, who, independent from any giant outside organization, unionized the … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Robert Frost
Just now I sat at my kitchen table, eating saag paneer and yogurt and sauteed carrots and reading a book of poems. Flipping through the book of poems, to be accurate, letting serendipity dictate which ones I ended up reading. A word here and there –ghost, twilight, firefly, road– the sort of word I’m inexorably … Continue reading "It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there"
The Span of Life – Robert Frost The dog barks backward without getting up. I can remember when he was a pup. — For more information on Robert Frost, please click here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/robert-frost — Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pages/Alison-McGhee/119862491361265?ref=ts Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Robert Frost
There’s a one-room shop in New York City that features dozens of cubbies, like dioramas, of perfect miniature rooms, complete to the last detail. Doll house furnishings unlike any you’ve ever seen before – a rolled-up newspaper, headlines and print readable, measuring half an inch. A wooden tray, the size of your pinky nail, containing … Continue reading In my father's house there are many mansions
Once upon a time you and your sister Oatie spent the summer in Colorado. This was the summer after you graduated from college, the summer after her junior year in college. You spent a week at home, waiting for Oatie to finish up with school, and then you flew out together. It was Oatie’s first … Continue reading – and comes that other fall we name the fall
You buy a pint of blueberries at the farmer’s market. Or, if your city backyard just happens to be overgrown with blueberries, you pick them yourself. Then you lie on your porch swing with a book and the pint of blueberries at your side. Reach in for a handful without looking and toss them into … Continue reading "You ought to have seen what I saw on my way. . ."