Category: san diego

Summer reading list, for serious.

Published on by taylor mardis katzLeave a comment

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.

Her name is V’Nilla…

Published on by taylor mardis katzLeave a comment

…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.

Poem (mine).

Published on by taylor mardis katzLeave a comment

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.

Dream Song 295 (John Berryman).

Published on by taylor mardis katzLeave a comment

 

You dear you, cleaning up Henry’s foreign affairs,
with your sword & armour heading for his bank,
a cable gone astray:
except for you he had hopped in the Liffey & sank.
Now what can he in return do: upstairs? downstairs?
You run your life every day

so well it’s hard to think    of anything you need
and I only supply needs, needs & ceremonies,
I’ll send you the last thirteen,
in all of which Henry is extremely dead
but talkative. To you with your peat moss & leaf-mould
& little soft wet holes

where you put ginger, bloodroot & blueheads
& pearly everlastings, —what can he say of worth?
In all his nine lives
he was seldom so pleased been to be on the same earth
with you, my dear. We get on better than
most husbands & wives.

 

 

The book I made in an edition of 4 (poem, photograph).

Published on by taylor mardis katzLeave a comment

Blanco y Negro (y Gris y Gris)

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.

Home poem (mine).

Published on by taylor mardis katzLeave a comment

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