Monday, September 22, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Reginald Shepherd's Last Poem
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Six Unspectacular Things About Myself
Paula at " Wingtips" has tagged me to list 6 unspectacular things about myself. How do you decide which unspectacular things are more noticeably unspectacular than all the others? Oh, well; so much for metaphysics. Here's my list:
1. I'm seriously claustrophobic, so much so that I'm going to be cremated and have my ashes scattered over the hills or on the seashore rather than be stuck in a narrow, cramped box several feet under the surface of the earth in the dark with all the icky, squirmy things down there. Me and Buffy.
2. I have my contemporary poetry collection (which fills several large bookcases) divided by nationality but not otherwise; it can take me a couple of hours to find a book I'm looking for, especially if it's a U. S. poet, as that's the largest section of my collection.
4. I have never skied; I never intend to.
5. I like charcoal-grilled eggplant and red pepper strips with yogurt.
6. I love to take long walks through the woods on slightly-chilly early spring and fall mornings.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
In Memoriam: Reginald Shepherd 1963 - 2008
Reginald Shepherd died Wednesday night after a year-long struggle with cancer.
"A Handful of Sand"
I'm always putting thing in poems
where I think they'll keep, lying
to the lying gods to make a way
out of whatever ways I have.
The rooms we wander through
on a day of no significance
are white, are beige, are gray, nothing
of any importance will happen
today. A fake fragment of Greek frieze
frames three plaster women in pleated chitons
sitting on a bus, or so it looks
from here, a krater holds a plastic plant
(saw palmetto, perhaps) that's following
them, but they don't seem to be
moved. Graffiti on the men's room stall
reads "TEXT," reads "SIGN,"
and also the word "DEUCE"
scratched into green-painted metal.
Think of all the blunder and fault
in the world, a noisy lexicon
of mistake, hoots, jargles, squawks,
and rasps, think of all the bending
and breaking of oak boughs.
Think of the quartz beach wrecked
by recent hurricanes, driftwood
and seaweed beginning to stink,
plastic cup lids I mistook for shells.
(We have seen the wind
by what it leaves behind, its wreckage
and detritus, but the water
won't be wounded.)
File this pearl-smooth conch interior
under no, press it against your ear
as if it were the spirit radio,
and you were walking down the street
tuned to just one voice, wading
waist-high through shallow light.
The minutes continue their shine, the shapes
of color change and turn; a wind
blows through my skin
and you renew the weather.
I will not entirely die.
(from Fata Morgana, Reginald Shepherd,
University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007)