a nature poem for you by Charles Bukowski



I’ve got these two kittens who are rapidly growing into
cats and
we sleep on the same bed – the problem being that
they are early risers:
I am often awakened by claws running across my

all they do is run, eat, sleep, shit and
but at moments they are still and they look
at me
with eyes
far more beautiful than any human eyes I have ever
they are good guys.

late at night when I drink and type
they are about
like say
one on the back of my chair and the other down there
nibbling at my toes.
we have a natural concern for each other, like to know
where we are and where everything

they come out
run across the floor
run across the typed sheet there
leaving wrinkles and tiny puncture-holes in the

they leap into the big box of letters I get from
but they don’t answer, they are house-

I expect any number of cat poems from them
of which this is the

“my god,” they will say, “all Chinaski writes about
are cats!”
“my god,” they used to say, “all Chinaski writes about
are whores!”

the complainers will complain and keep buying my
books: they love the way I irritate

this is the last poem of any number of poems
tonight, there’s
one drink of wine left
and both of those guys
they are asleep across the top of my feet.
I can feel the gentle weight of them
the touch of fur
I am aware of their breathing:
good things happen often, remember that
as the Bombs trundle out in their magnificent
at my feet
know more,
and instants of the moments explode
and a lucky past
can never be


Knoxville, Tennessee by Nikki Giovanni



I always like summer
you can eat fresh corn
from daddy’s garden
and okra
and greens
and cabbage
and lots of
and buttermilk
and homemade ice-cream
at the church picnic
and listen to
gospel music
at the church
and go to the mountains with
your grandmother
and go barefooted
and be warm
all the time
not only when you go to bed
and sleep

Dirge Without Music by Edna St. Vincent Millay


, ,

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.  Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone.  They are gone to feed the roses.  Elegant and curled
Is the blossom.  Fragrant is the blossom.  I know.  But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know.  But I do not approve.  And I am not resigned.

My Heart’s in the Highlands by Robert Burns


I read this recently while hiking in the Scottish highlands at Glencoe…


Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.


My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.


Farewell to the mountains, high-cover’d with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.


My heart’s in the Highlands …

Thanks by W.S. Merwin


with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
standing by the windows looking out
in our directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
taking our feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
thank you we are saying and waving
dark though it is

Tonight by Agha Shahid Ali


 Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar
—Laurence Hope
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight?
Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?
Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—”
“Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight?
I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates—
A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.
God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar—
All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight.
Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken;
Only we can convert the infidel tonight.
Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities
multiply me at once under your spell tonight.
He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.
He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight.
In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed.
No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.
God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day—
I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight.
Executioners near the woman at the window.
Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight.
The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer
fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight.
My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all?
This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight.
And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee
God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.

My 2017 in Reading, so far…


2017 has been a wonderful year…for reading. These books comprise my (non poetry) assorted best of list, for now. Who knows what the fall bring? 

  • An alt history more entertaining than Inglorious Basterds: The Yid by Paul Goldberg
  • She made something beautiful out of Brexit: Autumn by Ali Smith
  • Best book about living in and loving an old house: Plant Dreaming Deep by May Sarton
  • Innovative, timely, and the likely inspiration for a dream about magic doors: Exit West by Mohsin Hamid
  • The Underground Railroad is not his only fantastic book: The Intuitionist and Zone One by Colson Whitehead
  • A brilliant, old fashioned Texas tale: News of the World by Paulette Jiles
  • Wildest game of tennis / world history ever: Sudden Death by Alvaro Enrigue
  • World fail me, but I distinctly remember the scene that made me feel buoyant: Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders
  • I finally read: King Lear by Shakespeare
  • Favorite I-reads (Irish and Indian): The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, City of Bohane by Kevin Barry
  • It’s never too late for anything: The All of It by Jeannette Haien, Our Souls at Night by Ken Haruf, Olive Kittredge by Elizabeth Strout
  • An intriguing discovery: Richard Beard’s first century historical fiction – Lazarus is Dead and The Apostle Killer
  • A captivating biography of place: Edinburgh by Robert Louis Stevenson
  • Never explain, never apologize: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark
  • I’ll read anything these two write: The Accidental and Hotel World by Ali Smith; Crusoe’s Daughter and God on the Rocks by Jane Gardam
  • The character I can’t forget: The Queen of the Corner in Pedro Lemebel’s My Tender Matador
  • On my list of world events I want to understand – the Russian Revolution: October by China Miéville
  • Different kinds of funny: The Sellout by Paul Beatty, Hot Water by P.G. Wodehouse
  • Short stuff: South and West by Joan Didion, Ninety-nine Stories of God by Joy Williams
  • Novels I can’t leave off: Commonwealth by Ann Patchett, The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry

Seeing the Eclipse in Maine by Robert Bly



It started about noon.  On top of Mount Batte,
We were all exclaiming.  Someone had a cardboard
And a pin, and we all cried out when the sun
Appeared in tiny form on the notebook cover.
It was hard to believe.  The high school teacher
We’d met called it a pinhole camera,
People in the Renaissance loved to do that.
And when the moon had passed partly through
We saw on a rock underneath a fir tree,
Dozens of crescents—made the same way—
Thousands!  Even our straw hats produced
A few as we moved them over the bare granite.
We shared chocolate, and one man from Maine
Told a joke.  Suns were everywhere—at our feet