My purpose here is to engage with the most pressing issues in our world (and good food). I'm not trying to convince you. We convince ourselves, even when others help. I have no desire to quarrel. If you feel challenged, that may be good. Respond! I hope we can be allies. If you see that the world is in peril, we can cooperate, whether or not we share the same ultimate vision or sense of history. If all else fails, I hope you like my musings on food or my poems. At any rate, welcome!
Some New Poems
Three Sonnets for the Wedding of Abby and Giles
“Now is the time when all occasional things
close into silence,only one tree,one
svelte translation of eternity”
- e.e. cummings, from “Epithalamion”
High born ocean child, the Colorado
moon kisses Pacific ripples whitely.
With feathered deftness, unweaving nightly,
quilting by daylight in Brooklyn's sallow
interiors, wah-wah trumpet echoes
some dirty Gershwin's muted rhapsody
amid scents of the best gingerbread we
ever tasted and olive oil cake so
moist and unctuous, a delicate sweetness
like friendship, like summer, like verbena
tea, sun-brewed, sipped at night amid laughter
like hymns from Hudson Valley's moon to bless
the knee-high corn and us. Before you, a
gold ring through which comes everything after.
The wolf made you do it. Mycorrhizal
dreams flashing in the soul's gloaming, where oak
and composted memory collude. Smoke
from Victoria pine sap, freegan hauls
of Brooklyn wood, story of crucible,
firebird, love, wolf. We drink wine and poke
cinders, warm olives and eat them. You woke
dazed, water and stitching still visible
on your body, water of death and life,
brought by crow, administered by wolf. Here,
a living bed carved in olive tree, one
flame from two candles entwined. The words wife
and husband entwine power and art. Hear
in your bones the endless ringing of sun.
We followed the sun to Turtle Island's
edge, then crossed the water on heron tail
or wolf back. You forged this ring. We won't fail
to hold you. The old Greeks say that one and
one make one, the one with torch and garland,
made of beauty and wild energy. Pale
Aphrodite and Dionysius, hale
with wine and goat blood (light matter demands
dark), crashed together, made he who visits
now, for whom hymns play on Adirondack
peaks and Brooklyn decks, this presence. Linger
with me and drink to things that grow and fit,
to ripe cheese, deities, and friends, no lack
here, to a flower plucked for a finger.
Crocuses in the still brown grass.
Doppler shift catches of
“Sultans of Swing,” “I Will Survive,” and
“Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?”
More rain, the wettest year on record.
Peepers, robins, the sweet, occasional sun.
Deer Isle, ME, Tuesday, April 3rd, 1979.
On the radio, something of the assassination
of Bhutto, and the election of Jane Byrne
as mayor of Chicago. Old, crisp apples
in a wooden bowl, coal in the fireplace
and slender warmth under the pressed tin
ceiling and bad lights. In the field, strawberry
leaves unfold under brown fescue,
nerved meadow grass, and rose.
Pine trees pine, silhouetted at dusk as in so much
local art. Kale bursts under glass across the water