National Poetry Month

Yours Is The Music For No Instrument by E. E. Cummings

yours is the music for no instrument

yours the preposterous colour unbeheld



—mine the unbought contemptuous intent

till this our felsh merely shall be excelled

by speaking flower

                      (if I have made songs



it does not greatly matter to the sun,

nor will rain care

                      cautiously who prolongs

unserious twilight)Shadows have begun



the hair’s worm huge,ecstatic,rathe….



yours are the poems i do not write.



In this at least we have got a bulge on death,

silence,and the keenly musical light



of sudden nothing….la bocca mia “he

kissed wholly trembling”



                              or so thought the lady.

Reading Wednesday

What did you just finish?
Nothing, alas!

What are you currently reading?
NOS4A2 by Joe Hill. This is really good! I know it's not fair to constantly compare Hill to Stephen King, but one of the things that sticks out to me is the diversity of Hill's characters. Most of King's main characters are just King with a different name (that is, middle aged, middle class white guy, usually a writer, usually from Maine or nearby), whereas Hill has a wider reach. He's not perfect, of course, because no one is (Vic, the main character of this book, does sometimes have this feel of "a woman being written by a man"; it's very self-conscious, is the best way I can think of to put it); but I appreciate the effort.

The Far Pavilions by M.M. Kaye. God, this book is endless. But I'm so close to being done! For the dramatic climax, Ash has gone off to disguise himself as an Afghani to be a spy and live in Kabul during the Second Anglo-Afghan War. Because this is obviously a very exciting plot development that would be fun to read about, it's all happening off-screen while the last hundred of so pages have been a nearly non-fictional account of politics and battles. Without Ash around to be a sexist dick, the author has instead gone with bizarre European stereotypes, because I suppose something has to be terrible: And as he watched, the prescience that is so often a part of the Irish heritage stirred in him, bringing a premonition of disaster that was so strong that instinctively he flung up a hand as though to ward it off... (man, I have Irish heritage! WHEN DO I GET TO TELL THE FUTURE?) and He had not expected the older man to understand how he had felt, but Louis Cavagnari was only English by adoption. The blood in his veins was French and Irish, and he too was a romantic. I'd like to note that this book was written in 1978, not 1878.