Between houses appears your unmistakable
hair, the hair of a wild man, wilderness
clothed in cottons. We warm
each other and warn the seasons
of their attributes. The winter steals
the softness from our elbows and you,
browned soldier, are older than
the weatherman predicts, more full
of starch, your heels unpeeling. Hot
beet skins stain a paper bag.
1. NOONIE link. Nuni. Nuny—SNL, you win on this one.
2. David and Sandy Katz, summertime
3. Long poem that’s worth it and made me cry, in a good way.
4. Today I planted thousands of sunflowers. Literally thousands, and about half a dozen types. In a few months, there will be a 1.8 acres more of beauty in the world, and I will have been part of it.
This is my second attempt at illustration. Drawing it pleased me so much that I was giggling to myself basically the whole time. Happy July 4th to Scott Ballum and everyone else I love.
I just looked at last summer’s book list, which I posted here last June. I didn’t read a single book on that list. This makes me think that perhaps I’m doomed to lose interest in any book that’s on the Summer Reading List. Or perhaps my list was made by just looking around my house at books I’ve been meaning to, but not especially wanting to, read (sometimes there’s a big difference between these two categories). This year’s book list features some books I’ve already read, so hopefully I’m not such a big liar this time around.
***
Le Summer Book List 2011.
The Fountainhead/Ayn Rand (check)
Letters of James Schuyler to Frank O’Hara (check) (swoon)
The Art of Recklessness/Dean Young (in middle of)
A Visit from the Good Squad/Jennifer Egan (as of today, check)
The Best of It/Kay Ryan (in middle of)
The Good Earth/Pearl S. Buck
Invisible Cities/Italo Calvino (this was on last year’s list too, but now I actually own it)
Collected John Berryman (all of it, of course)
Linguistics: A Very Short Introduction/ P.H. Matthews
Otherwise: New and Selected Poems/Jane Kenyon
Lighthead/Terrance Hayes
Siddhartha/Hermann Hesse
From A to B and Back Again: The Philosophy of Andy Warhol(/Andy Warhol)
The Maverick Poets: An Anthology/ed. Steve Kowitt
Tremor: Selected Poems/Adam Zagajewski (again)
Truth and Beauty/Ann Patchet (in middle of)
A Trip to the Stars/Nicholas Christopher
Come All You Ghosts/Matthew Zapruder
Bossypants/Tina Fey
The photograph below, by Elliot Erwitt, is where I’d prefer to do all of this reading. But my kitchen table will work, too.
…and she is a little chicken. I call her the chicky-wicky. She was bullied by her siblings so she needs some TLC on the sideporch. Luckily Katie Conway was here for her arrival and took this hilarious photograph, which really captures how excited I was about getting a little chicken, because in very few circumstances would I walk down the street in a bikini.
And here she is a couple of days later, when she hopped into the kitchen looking for me like the precious little chicken that she is.
Little things are my favorite things.
Small House Poem
for Ellie
In this little house
all you need is a little
bit of everything. Little
vase (little flowers),
little pan to heat
the onions on, little
soap to balance on
the whitesink’s edge.
There’s a little bit
of magic to a space
so small it makes
a dog look like
a prince. A little
terrifying is a room
that serves as all
the rooms and yet
lying on the bed
one can watch the stove
stay silver for as long
as sunshine reaches
for the sill. There
are days inside
each day that I
might call a little
lifetime. Blessings
are the clergy’s way
of naming little
joys. How long until
the little things
amass and try
revolt: little marching
dishes hightailed
for the hills,
where ants the size
of ants line up
along their little
mountains, heedless
of the fullsized
mounds that rise
above their heads,
eyes tilted down
and focused only
on each other,
the little things
that matter aren’t
little things at all.
Truckstops never
stopped us from zoomin’.
I’ll have a 24oz
Pepsi-Cola.
(Lil poem written on a drive to Scottsdale, Arizona. Photo taken on our drive across the country. More photos of the drive west can be accessed by clicking on these words with your computer mouse.)
What a city should be like: angles of unfolding agave.
After noontime’s whistle, the streets are ripped asunder
and the reassembled. The grey clouds of the sea’s
factory remove appointments like gloves. Beauty’s
nothing but a startled bird awaiting snow.
let me be yo wil
derness let me be yo wind
blowing you all day.
-sonia sanchez
(photo taken last month at the monthly potluck at wild willow farm & education center)
An Almanac
after Schuyler
The yeasty closet where
the wine is kept. The
greasy iron skillet in its
allday dress of fat. The
soap that’s lengthened
by dilution. The sole
Haggadah on the shelf
above the mugs. It’s
illustrated. The empty
bourbon bottles staunch
in the last days of their
labels. The Buddha’s
mounted on a spoke.
The wok utensils, the
tipping photos on the
stained refrigerator’s
doors. Four avocadoes
in the highest hanging
basket. Four chairs of
lusty patterned velvet.
The teapot with its half
-filled silver belly. The
poppy flowers sipping
pertly in a liquor glass.
The books that wait for
us below the toaster.
The drying rag strung
through the grip of
the refrigerator. Dried
wildflowers in a tea
decanter atop the tallest
cabinets. There’s tape left
on the window from the
flier for the party. The
doubled over tablecloth
with specks of soup and
breakfast. Three pens
from which to choose
from. The pinkish salt
and labeled pepper. A
clock that’s impossible
to hook back on its
nail. It’s slow. We’re
slow to change its
battery. The tiny bowls
of seeds that could
be planted. The tapestry
of red batik: naked
woman with the stars
that mingle with her
hair (the artist is in
residence). The wire
rooster on the wall above
the table. The wooden
bowl of over twenty
oranges. The burner
knobs all turned to
OFF. The blue bread
bag hanging from a
tiny cabinet knob, full
of plastics to reuse. The
folded-open magazines
in piles by the window.
Peacock feathers fanning
from the shelves of
spices. Bananas green
as limes. Olive oil leaned
against the vinegar because
they’re standing on a
towel. And another
bottle joins them. At least
one door or drawer
remains ajar. A wooden
bowl for farm-picked
lunches drying in the
rack. And all the other
drying bowls. And forks
and used containers.
The canister of coffee,
salmon pink with its
spoon stained brown.
I can smell it when I
walk into the bathroom.
The tiny colored flags
above the kitchen door.
The blinds that loosen
but we tighten them back
up. The skinny bathroom
door. The red tin colored
like a phone booth for
change found on the
floor. Knives stiff and
at attention on their
magnet, and the print
of wood and ink and
the cloaklike steam
that coats the windows
in the winter when
there’s roasting beets
or casserole. If the
sun is coming in, it’s
early. If both the blinds
are closed then the
golden lock is locked
panache, perhaps 
