I do not like thee, Doctor Fell,
The reason why – I cannot tell;
But this I know, and know full well,
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
— Tom Brown, circa 1680 (apocryphal)
Chromolithograph of the Hall of Christ Church, Oxford, from the book Old England: A Pictorial Museum of Regal, Ecclesiastical, Baronial, Municipal, and Popular Antiquities (published by Charles Knight and Co., London, 1845)
Does this cozy Southern house
harbor an audacious mouse?
Because heaven only knows
what just ran across my toes.
Lithographic plates. After Matthaeus Merian’s 17th century drawings.
There is a mourning dove on the telephone wire out front just staring through my window at me.
This might mean I need to become a mourning dove-themed superhero a la Frank Miller’s “Batman: Year One.”
Figures I’d get the depressing #@&* instead of a falcon or an owl something.
DC Comics.
I’m honored to share here that several of my poems have been selected by the Dead Letter Radio podcast! “March Midnight Window” was the first last night to be read and interpreted by host Taize Jones, who brings a relatable and sublimely empathetic voice to his program. My poem is the sixth and last piece to be read on Episode 10, “Eisegesis” (at about the 18:02 mark).
You can listen to the entire episode right here. Dead Letter Radio is also available on Spotify, Apple Podcasts and over at Listen Notes.
I really recommend that you check out Taize’s show. It’s a truly unique online venue — giving listeners the feel that they are reacting to poems with a trusted friend. (I’ll bet that its style of presentation successfully engages many new readers of poetry.)
Thanks again, Taize!
DC Comics.
There’s a damn terrific poem over at Anti-Heroin Chic by my friend and colleague Dennis Villelmi — take a look at “Everlasting Pieces.”
One of the things that consistently appeals to me about Dennis’ work is his frequent use of dark road-trip-through-America settings — like Jack Kerouac crossed with a troubled, looking-glass Norman Rockwell. When I finally get a chance someday to drive my own cross-country odyssey, I am going to bring his poems along with me.
“Vocation,” by W. H. Auden (Part XII of “The Quest”)
Incredulous, he stared at the amused
Official writing down his name among
Those whose request to suffer was refused.
The pen ceased scratching: though he came too late
To join the martyrs, there was still a place
Among the tempters for a caustic tongue
To test the resolution of the young
With tales of the small failings of the great,
And shame the eager with ironic praise.
Though mirrors might be hateful for a while,
Women and books would teach his middle age
The fencing wit of an informal style,
To keep the silences at bay and cage
His pacing manias in a worldly smile.
