Made this image in response to a need at church. Saving this here as a record of my progress in self-taught gimp-fu.
All my posts have been delivered from my old blog. My web past has been preserved.Thanks again to Matt Mullenweg and his man Otto who helped get my pathetic disheveled blog self into these new digs!
Now I need to decide what my blog future holds, what a blog means in the age of Facebook and daily hyper micro sharing. I need to decide what to unpack and what to store, what rooms to build out and what to leave bare with potential.
I do know that I never intend to quit using this place to collect my favorite poetry. I’ll set this one, freshly picked, down right here:
There’s nothing that I really want:
The stars tonight are rich and cold
Above my house that vaguely broods
Upon a path soon lost in dark.
My dinner plate is chipped all round
(It tells me that I’ve changed a lot);
My glass is cracked all down one side
(It shows there is a path for me).
My hands—I rest my head on them.
My eyes—I rest my mind on them.
There’s nothing that I really need
Before I set out on that path.
from Gettysburg Review
Volume 19, Number 3, Autumn 2006, page 470
I’ve not read much poetry lately. Glad to have come across this beauty. Reminded me that a deficiency in Vitamin P causes dehydration of my soul.
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
— Mark Strand