The painting haunts. She has Polio, but she thrives. She loves the warmth, the comfort, the familial bliss of that house in Cushing, Maine, and nothing will prevent her presence there. Not the long trek. Not the pain. Not the time. The time is hers. The journey is hers. She is used to all things. Pain. Time. Effort. And the painter senses that. He inhabits her for a moment and gives all of us Christina, by way of Beth, his wife. The wife of Wyeth. Every blade of grass is there or hinted at. Every form of struggle, love of landscape, love of home.… |To be Continued “Christina’s World”
Watched a very good film on DVD last night. The Visitor is a story about an emotionally repressed college professor in Connecticut, a widower who seems to have settled into his own level of depression and is just going through the motions. Until. Until he is forced to give a paper at a conference in New York City and discovers squatters living in his apartment. Two illegal immigrants, seeking a better life. A gifted drummer from Syria, played by Haaz Sleiman, and his girlfriend from Senegal, played by Danai Jekesai Gurira. Tarek and Zainab think they are living in the apartment legally, having sublet from a conman.… |To be Continued “The Visitor”
I am not the piston in the flower or The bulging seed throttled by pollen But a separate figure expectant and Cupped by the shape palms make Holding sumptuously to the fragile Killings – crickets, bees, and moths The soulful water strider apparently Impervious to deep mirrored waters And the lotus lilies rooted in mire Look up at me Look into me I am the wind-loving swallow Lighter than the air itself Rippling my whole transience Renascent by the threat of rain – by Desi Di Nardo
Previously published in the September 2008 Arts & Culture issue of Our Neighbourhood Magazine.… |To be Continued “Beautiful Vagabonds, by Desi Di Nardo”
[Guest blogger du jour Tony Jones]
What’s the mystique about mysticism? (Or is the question itself just a misleading fork in the road, excluded middle term, dun leaves dead on a worm-ridden tree, as in “not seeing the forest for the … ”, regarding spirituality).
When I watched Kung Fu as a young child, then as now I was entranced by the mixture of action and the ambiance of a kind of deep inner peace that drove it. I think I missed the master-pupil “grasshopper” dynamic, but I was only two or three years old.… |To be Continued “Tony Jones: Pizza Space”
An older poem of mine reminds me of the biography of Yeats I’m reading now. The biography of Yeats reminds me of an older poem. Not so much for what resides inside the poem or inside the book. But the act of writing itself. The act of being a poet. The act. The context of that act.
The bio is R. F. Foster’s two volume masterwork from the 1990s. I read Richard Ellmann’s essential biography many years ago, which set the standard. So far, after 100 pages, the Foster bio reads almost as well, is far more detailed, but lacks the sense of capturing Yeats as quickly as did Ellmann’s.… |To be Continued “The Apprentice Mage”