Ample make this Bed —
Make this Bed with Awe —
Ample make this Bed —
Every story can be broken down
into elements of timing and space:
man goes on a trip, man comes to town.
by Felix Jung The vultures, about 50 of them altogether, ambled slowly up the hill and took to the air with evident difficulty, overfed as they are from this daily ritual. —New York Times, 7.3.99 What you see in front of you is only a body. Take your knife and begin with the feet, the toes. Oranges never cry when…
>Grandma and I were sitting in the airplane on-route to Cabo. She looked out the window and inspiration came to her. She asked for pen and paper and wrote this poem in a matter of minutes.
Our family stands on a hill high above
Los Angeles, holding stacks of paper
in our hands, thick Chinese characters
scrawled in ink. Yut Cheen, one thousand,
the smallest sits at the top. Each bill
is bigger than the last, ten thousand, one
hundred thousand, the sum so large
it makes me dizzy trying to count.
The ambulance men touched her cold
body, lifted it, heavy as iron,
onto the stretcher, tried to close the
mouth, closed the eyes, tied the
arms to the sides, moved a caught
strand of hair, as if it mattered,
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
In my dreams I am my own
locomotive, rumbling over
mountain peaks; every hinge
and wheel of me trembles
with this quaking. I am
the earth in its anger…
by Felix Jung I have no faith in architects, no trustin beams of steel or wood. If steady windscan push a mountain back to dust, how long until a wall of brick comes tumbling down?The ground does not forgive, it never needsto give more than it takes. Acidic rains eat statues year by year, the names on grave-stones smudge away…
by Felix Jung Passer-by, stop, look, and getthe hell out of here. I have seen nothinglast forever under the sun. Oh time,devourer of things. Oh sun, kingof kings. Only you can prove that Iam useful. Let others tell of stormsand showers, I only markthe bright hours. It is light that makes a shadow.Nobody looks at me when the sunis not…
As many of you know, I’m a huge fan of Billy Collins. I happened across an animation of one of his poems this morning, and wanted to share it. It’s silly, but the “Related” section is actually longer than my post. If you enjoyed this poem, consider digging through some of the links below. Lots of previously good stuff there….
We got our first snow in Chicago while I was away visiting Washington DC. I’m a little late on this, but here’s an old Flash project that draws on specific keywords relating to snow. First Snow pulls in photos that contain words or phrases like “snow,” “snowflake,” or “first snow.” They’re sorted by time, with preference to photos that are…
by Robert Frost Nature’s first green is gold,Her hardest hue to hold.Her early leaf’s a flower;But only so an hour.Then leaf subsides to leaf.So Eden sank to grief,So dawn goes down to day.Nothing gold can stay.
While browsing around on MetaFilter, I happened across a post about lanyards. If you’ve ever gone to summer camp, you likely recognize the name. I was reminded of Billy Collins’ poem, The Lanyard, and was delighted to find a clip of him reading the poem on YouTube (I actually mentioned this poem before, but at the time all that was…
by Stevie Smith Nobody heard him, the dead man,But still he lay moaning:I was much further out than you thoughtAnd not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larkingAnd now he’s deadIt must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always(Still the dead one lay moaning)I was…