Assorted Odd Ends with Occasional Stuff on the Side
Monday, March 31, 2008
National Poetry Writing Month starts tomorrow, April 1st, and of course coincides with National Poetry Month. (You can get a poem a day e-mailed to you by the Academy of American Poets by going here.) NaPoWriMo, for those who don't know, is the form of lunacy in which the victims commit themselves to writing a poem a day for the entire month.
A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami The White Castle by Orhan Pamuk The Storyteller by Mario Vargas Llosa Death in the Andes by Mario Vargas Llosa The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros Cellophane by Marie Arana The End of the Poem: Oxford Lectures by Paul Muldoon Annals of the Former World by John McPhee
"Hardboiled" Crime Fiction:
The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps edited by Otto Penzler Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett Nightmare Town by Dashiell Hammett Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler The Simple Art of Murder by Raymond Chandler Trouble Is My Business by Raymond Chandler
My New Mediterranean Cooking Shelf:
Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco by Paula Wolfert Cooking at the Kasbah: Recipes from My Moroccan Kitchen by Kitty Morse The New Book of Middle Eastern Food by Claudia Roden Simple Mediterranean Cookery by Claudia Roden
Today, March 6th, is the birthday of an internet friend I'd lost contact with in the last couple of years, so I decided to try to get in touch with him. What I located instead was his obituary
Rodney L. Armstrong, March 6, 1965 -- December 22, 2005
Rod was a good friend during and following the years we worked together on the poetry board he created, Gandy Creek. He was also a fine poet himself, as this poem (originally published in Avatar Review 3) shows:
Night after the fish kill particles are scarce, there's little to cling between dense stars.
A southern wind insists, the waves of willow lake slap their thousands at our feet. They twitch dead reeds along the bank. Jug mouths offer nothing but baritones.
Across the lake, moonlight falls like scales from dead fish, each flake a gasp of particles in the darkness.
In turning to go we see we leave no footprints. We cling to keep from being scattered by the wind.