Monday, September 04, 2006
Faces
Notice: I've opened a Facebook account. While you are required to have your own account to view mine and others' pages, photo galleries are open. To see pictures, travel here.
Notice: I've opened a Facebook account. While you are required to have your own account to view mine and others' pages, photo galleries are open. To see pictures, travel here.
The Latest
Recent Readings: Saint Augustine, Confessions; John Ashberry Collected Poems; Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights; Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son; M.M. Bakhtin.
Recent Viewing: Doctor Zhivago, The Great Dictator, Cheers season 1, Law and Order marathon on TNT, Gimme Shelter, Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man, Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, Mildred Pierce.
Recent Listening: John Lennon 4-disc Anthology, Double Fantasy; CSN&Y, 4-Way Street; The Magic Numbers; Dylan.
Fordham: I've experienced my first grad class. I will encounter my first tutees in the Writing Center tomorrow. I've completed my first graduate text, Wuthering Heights, and am busy sifting through critical essays and other supplementary materials. I still have but a hazy vision of where and on what I want to focus my professional academic career.
I rushed up to share an Ashberry poem and inadvertantly learned of Steve Irwin's death, at 44, by freak stingray spike to the heart. I'll still post the poem below, but will also share a moment of grief as the Australian's star dims. In the spirit of Ashberry poetry (and, perhaps, Bakhtin's heteroglossia), there is sure to be some meaningful connection:
A Blessing In Disguise
John Ashberry
Yes, they are alive and can have those colors,
But I, in my soul, am alive too.
I feel I must sing and dance, to tell
Of this in a way, that knowing you may be drawn to me.
And I sing amid despair and isolation
Of the chance to know you, to sing of me
Which are you. You see,
You hold me up to the light in a way
I should never have expected, or suspected, perhaps
Because you always tell me I am you,
And right. The great spruces loom.
I am yours to die with, to desire.
I cannot ever think of me, I desire you
For a room in which the chairs ever
Have their backs turned to the light
Inflicted on the stone and paths, the real trees
That seem to shine at me through a lattice toward you.
If the wild light of this January day is true
I pledge me to be truthful unto you
Whom I cannot ever stop remembering.
Remembering to forgive. Remember to pass beyond you into the day
On the wings of the secret you will never know.
Taking me from myself, in the path
Which the pastel girth of the day has assigned to me.
I prefer "you" in the plural, I want "you,"
You must come to me, all golden and pale
Like the dew and the air.
And then I start getting this feeling of exaltation.
Recent Readings: Saint Augustine, Confessions; John Ashberry Collected Poems; Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights; Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son; M.M. Bakhtin.
Recent Viewing: Doctor Zhivago, The Great Dictator, Cheers season 1, Law and Order marathon on TNT, Gimme Shelter, Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man, Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, Mildred Pierce.
Recent Listening: John Lennon 4-disc Anthology, Double Fantasy; CSN&Y, 4-Way Street; The Magic Numbers; Dylan.
Fordham: I've experienced my first grad class. I will encounter my first tutees in the Writing Center tomorrow. I've completed my first graduate text, Wuthering Heights, and am busy sifting through critical essays and other supplementary materials. I still have but a hazy vision of where and on what I want to focus my professional academic career.
I rushed up to share an Ashberry poem and inadvertantly learned of Steve Irwin's death, at 44, by freak stingray spike to the heart. I'll still post the poem below, but will also share a moment of grief as the Australian's star dims. In the spirit of Ashberry poetry (and, perhaps, Bakhtin's heteroglossia), there is sure to be some meaningful connection:
A Blessing In Disguise
John Ashberry
Yes, they are alive and can have those colors,
But I, in my soul, am alive too.
I feel I must sing and dance, to tell
Of this in a way, that knowing you may be drawn to me.
And I sing amid despair and isolation
Of the chance to know you, to sing of me
Which are you. You see,
You hold me up to the light in a way
I should never have expected, or suspected, perhaps
Because you always tell me I am you,
And right. The great spruces loom.
I am yours to die with, to desire.
I cannot ever think of me, I desire you
For a room in which the chairs ever
Have their backs turned to the light
Inflicted on the stone and paths, the real trees
That seem to shine at me through a lattice toward you.
If the wild light of this January day is true
I pledge me to be truthful unto you
Whom I cannot ever stop remembering.
Remembering to forgive. Remember to pass beyond you into the day
On the wings of the secret you will never know.
Taking me from myself, in the path
Which the pastel girth of the day has assigned to me.
I prefer "you" in the plural, I want "you,"
You must come to me, all golden and pale
Like the dew and the air.
And then I start getting this feeling of exaltation.
