A skin drum, hand made in Morocco and an artifact of extraordinary presence, was lent to me by my friend John Wyrick and now hangs on my studio wall. Exercise First, forget what time it is for an hour. Do it regularly every day. Then forget what day of the week it is, and do […]
W. S. Merwin
Marking our Passage
An unexpected gift on the Times Op-Ed page last Sunday, cohabiting with bleak post election columns by Frank Rich and Maureen Dowd: Six poems marking the end of daylight saving time. The work is all by blue chip poets—James Tate, Vijay Seshadri, Louise Glück, W. S. Merwin as well as the two whose poems I […]
Merwin: Past and Present
The Times’ put it this way: “The famously handsome Mr. Merwin in his younger years.” Wow. Few poets get that accolade… (Photo: Dido Merwin) A moment to contemplate W. S. Merwin, a poet whose work I respect but I often take for granted. As Dwight Garner wrote in a recent article in the New York […]
The Washed Colors of the Afterlife
A Single Autumn The year my parents died one that summer one that fall three months and three days apart I moved into the house where they had lived their last years it had never been theirs and was still theirs in that way for a while echoes in every room without a sound all […]
Walking at Night Between the Two Deserts
Air Naturally it is night. Under the overturned lute with its One string I am going my way Which has a strange sound. This way the dust, that way the dust. I listen to both sides But I keep right on. I remember the leaves sitting in judgment And then winter. I remember the rain […]