Sumer is icumen in, Lhude sing, cuccu! Groweth sed and bloweth med And springth the wude nu. Sing, cuccu!
Author: Timothy Yu
Catherine jumps into the “social poet” debate by quoting Richard Hugo’s distinction between poets who are “Krebs” (“In Hemingway’s story, the protagonist, Krebs, by birth and circumstance is an insider. As a result of his experiences in a war and his own sensitivity, he feels alienated and outside”) and “Snopes” (“In Faulkner’s story, the protagonist, Snopes, a little boy, by…
Of course, I’m being unfair to Josh. A Stanford workshop would make anyone frustrated with the clumsiness and inadequacy of words.
I do wonder exactly what a poet is supposed to do with his or her inevitable frustration with the clumsiness and inadequacy of words. Words are all we got. The only question is what you’re going to do with them. My problem is that words are overadequate. They say more than I could want or need them to. Poetry’s better…
My dog snores. The look of sadness is merely an artifact of the way the floor pushes her face up when she puts her head on it. I can’t explain the arched eyebrows.
I wonder if one of David’s homework assignments was not to read Silliman’s Blog.
Graduate schools turn out far more “product” than the market can bear. That’s good. My stylist said: “You have to put some product in your hair to give it direction.”
In Lush yesterday with Stephanie and Cassie: I wanted to eat everything. The soaps were almond cookies with a little nut in the exact center. The lotions were arranged in small dishes like gelato, or possibly tuna salad. No time to bother with forming a fetish. Just swallow whole. I am finding myself in the position of telling you something…
There’s a face at the window a smiling yellow face
Also now in possession of much less hair.