Jul 6, 2024 | Fiction, Poetry |
I. Truly, I live in dark times! An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead Points to insensitivity. He who laughs Has not yet received The terrible news. What times are these, in which A conversation about trees is almost a crime For in doing so we maintain our...
Jun 29, 2024 | Fiction, Poetry |
There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted who disappeared into those shadows. I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the...
Aug 29, 2020 | Non-Fiction, Travel |
I am wary of the dangers of fetishizing dialect and archaism – all that mollocking and sukebinding Stella Gibbons spoofed so brilliantly in Cold Comfort Farm (1932). Wary, too, of being seen to advocate a tyranny of the nominal – a taxonomic need to point and name,...
Mar 7, 2020 | Fiction, Poetry |
I will wait here in the fieldsto see how well the rainbrings on the grass.In the labor of the fieldslonger than a man’s lifeI am at home. Don’t come with me.You stay home too. I will be standing in the woodswhere the old treesmove only with the windand then with...
