Saturday, November 07, 2009

Ridley Scott's first & best film THE DUELLISTS is on TCM tonight, containing (besides a lot of very crisply rendered landscape) Harvey Keitel as the martinettiest, shortest-tempered Napoleonic officer in movie history, as well as Stephen Frear's fine first effort, the 1972 neo-noir

Gumshoe, with Albert Finney...

Local trees

Thursday, November 05, 2009

Wind & Dust in the nineteenth century--

This wind is the plague-wind of the eighth decade of the nineteenth century; a period which will assuredly be recognized in future meteorological history as one of the phenomena hitherto unrecorded in the courses of nature, and characterized pre-eminently by the almost ceaseless action of this calamitous wind...

goodbye to the Trailer Park Boys
Others failed to notice that it was a comedy at all, difficult to believe given dialogue such as the following, in which a drunken Jim Lahey describes his loathing for Ricky: “He grew up as a little shit spark from the old shit flame and then he turned into a shit bonfire, and then driven by the winds of his monumental ignorance he turned into a raging shit firestorm. If I get to be married to Barb, I’ll have total control of Sunnyvale, and then I can unleash a shitnami tidal wave that’ll engulf Ricky and extinguish his shit flames forever...”

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Local trees &c.
amiable memoir of a Summer with Empson...

Ancient rashers of fried bacon served as bookmarks in his disintegrating copy of Marvell’s Collected Poems. He stirred his tea with the sole remaining earpiece of his glasses...

Monday, November 02, 2009

Light Night

by James Schuyler


A tree, enamel needles,
owl takeoffs shake,
flapping a sound and smell
of underwing, like flags,
the clothy weight of flags.
A cone of silence stuck
with diamonds, the watch
she hunts, the frayed band
broke. It was a black night.
Dawn walked on it, the sun
set its heel. She won’t
find: a boundary of marsh,
the island in the wood.


Stoop, dove, horrid maid,
spread your chiffon on our
wood rot breeding the
Destroying Angel, white,
lathe-shapely, trout-lily
lovely. Taste, and have it.


In a rain-dusk dawn, the
clearing edge, the wood’s
fangs, the clear crystal
twist of a salival stream,
announce you hence. Tear
free of me, mountain, old
home bone, down sheer fear
tears mossed boulders
bound me, pool, deceptive,
trout-full, laugh and
chatter of finch and pecker,
gargle my liquor skin I
catch your face on. Scar
a look and leave. A rust
plush daycoach unfathers
me. A field of crosses. Let
iron clang iron.

more Schuyler at the
November 2009 : Poetry Magazine