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Maps and Atlases - Every place is a house (via inhumancreation)
Since they’re coming soon! (and I just got my ticket for the Friday show!)
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High-res →
This is Eduard. I finished him this morning for my watercolor final project. Discovery: I don’t suck at painting.
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Interns of Poets House: One Foot in the Door
Interning. Something almost every college and high school student experiences, especially those in the arts. It’s how we get a foot in the door of The Industry, learn what will be expected of us, and begin to hone our professional talents. These “jobs” can range from the easy but mundane (filing…
oh hey, I get to write about my awesome job now! And y’all could read it =]
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Of Lights that Go Before Men, and Follow Them Abroad In the Fields, by the Night Season, Colin Cheney (for 7/31)
The focal length is all wrong, I say
to the meteor shower.
Be calm, they say,
or the chimney swallows will steal
ember by ember
everything keeping you close to him
lying on the lawn, counting stars
shaken from the night’s branches
in summer storm.
I promise to pay the medical bill
for August’s sky: orbits of iron
pith & cloud-seed broken
against our atmosphere.
The telescope we built—
a cardboard tube, Teflon
& mirror—is a close for seeing
only what could have been,
can’t tell you anything
about this moment. Here, light
means destruction. A mattress
dragged across the wet field
means light. The swallows
ember in the chimney.
Lie still, the meteors say
above the apple’s barren
branches. Sometimes
the sky can only be torn apart
with the naked eye. -
Romantics, Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann, Lisel Mueller (for 7/26)
The modern biographers worry
“how far it went,” their tender friendship.
They wonder just what it means
when he writes he thinks of her constantly,
his guardian angel, beloved friend.
The modern biographers ask
the rude, irrelevant question
of our age, as if the event
of two bodies meshing together
establishes the degree of love,
forgetting how softly Eros walked
in the nineteenth century, how a hand
held overlong or a gaze anchored
in someone’s eyes could unseat a heart,
and nuances of address not known
in our egalitarian language
could make the redolent air
treble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility. Each time I hear
the Intermezzi, sad
and lavish in their tenderness,
I imagine the two of them
sitting in a garden
among late-blooming roses
and dark cascades of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them,
leaving us nothing to overhear. -
Brief Song, Elton Glaser
When love carries us
to this altitude
of lean air, our heads
clear, our hearts
open like parachutes. -
love notes
these are things that I could not tell you;
things that remind me of you when I want nothing more than to forget;
things that have gone wrong;
things that have gone right;
things that will never happen;
things that are your fault,
my fault,
the faults of no one;
these are things that we did not do and will not let go of
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