Category: Poetry

Without Luggage

Theodore Roethke is undoubtably my favorite poet, especially if you don’t count Milton, Pope, and Keats. Although this is a long-ish poem, it contains the one image that the poet burned into my mind and there is an interesting video at the end.

The Far Field
I
images.jpgI dream of journeys repeatedly:
Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel
Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula,
The road lined with snow-laden second growth,
A fine dry snow ticking the windshield,
Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic,
And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror,
The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone,
Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut,
Where the car stalls,
Churning in a snowdrift
Until the headlights darken.

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My Papa’s Waltz

images.jpgI am enjoying another month of somewhat light reading. I can’t simply say “light reading” because I am encountering twisted or barely-conceivable plot elements, putrid and gory dead bodies, cockroaches, and an occasional virgin or two. One pleasure I find is references to Los Angeles, whether by a struggling script writer or a grizzled homicide detective.

I left Los Angeles in 1968 but have nurtured a nostalgia for the city since the early ’50s. I have admitted this before when discussing the Philip Marlowe stories. I was born so I could experience the Los Angeles of ’30s and ’40s just as that world was slipping away. My college years at the university, my struggles of (too) early marriage, and a 1950 MG TD with the doors tied together by a frayed rope and a rag-top permanently fixed in the down position, gave me further insight into the city. My most vivid image: riding in that MG down Wilshire Boulevard in a misty rain with an large umbrella held over my head.

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The Final Issue Is Big and Fat and Full of Goodies

TH80-Cover-800x1029Some time around the Y2K scramble my daughter gifted me with a copy of Tin House Magazine: Issue 11 if I recall. Since then I have acquired and buried one wife, experienced one pesky stroke, gained a son-in-law and two delightful grand-children, read a few books, received social security, surrendered my driver’s license, and moved to northern Florida (certainly apostacy for a Southern California boy).

I filled in those earlier issues of Tin House and have several shelves next to my bed dedicated to all twenty years of the publication.

Sad to see it go.

featherline

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