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March 23, 2009
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Disagreement is, in its nature, like the creation of the world.
—Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav (1772–1810) |
This is a text a lecture (now postponed) by Nehemia Polen was going to discuss at a class in Newton, MA.
January 28, 2009
Hoeing
by John Updike
I sometimes fear the younger generation
will be deprived
of the pleasures of hoeing;
there is no knowing
how many souls have been formed by this
simple exercise.
The dry earth like a great scab breaks,
revealing
moist-dark loam –the pea-root’s home,
a fertile wound perpetually healing.
How neatly the great weeds go under!
The blade chops the earth new.
Ignorant the wise boy who
has never rendered thus the world
fecunder.
January 20, 2009
This is the poem Derek Walcott wrote for Obama. Read it out loud twice. I dare you. I couldn’t get through it the second time. Too weepy. This is a beautiful, beautiful piece.
Cenforce: Your Guide to Safe and Effective Use
Did you know that proper usage of cenforce can significantly impact its effectiveness? Here’s what you need to know:
1. Take one tablet orally, about 30-60 minutes before sexual activity.
2. Don’t exceed one dose in 24 hours.
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4. Stay hydrated, but limit alcohol consumption.
5. Inform your doctor about any medications you’re taking to prevent interactions.
Remember, cenforce is a prescription medication. Always consult your healthcare provider for personalized advice and never self-medicate.
Have questions about Cenforce? Drop them below, and let’s discuss safe usage practices!
Forty Acres
Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving —
a young Negro at dawn in straw hat and overalls,
an emblem of impossible prophecy, a crowd
dividing like the furrow which a mule has ploughed,
parting for their president: a field of snow-flecked
cotton
forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens
that the young ploughman ignores for his unforgotten
cotton-haired ancestors, while lined on one branch, is
a tense
court of bespectacled owls and, on the field’s
receding rim —
a gesticulating scarecrow stamping with rage at him.
The small plough continues on this lined page
beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado’s
black vengeance,
and the young ploughman feels the change in his veins,
heart, muscles, tendons,
till the land lies open like a flag as dawn’s sure
light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower.
December 13, 2008
November 17, 2008
Root canal
My burning bone
magnified by proximity
smells sweet,
oaky,
Chardonnay.
On a fall day
like this
distance once rendered
the concentration
of molecules
the same.
Strong measures
were in the air.
October 27, 2008
Chris Daly read my over-worked, under-thought article on bits and atoms, and sent me this poem by Emily Dickinson:
Part One: Life
CXXVI
THE BRAIN is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side,
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside.The brain is deeper than the sea,
For, hold them, blue to blue,
The one the other will absorb,
As sponges, buckets do.The brain is just the weight of God,
For, lift them, pound for pound,
And they will differ, if they do,
As syllable from sound.
August 28, 2008
Ode to an Outdoor Shower
Bird watching
Becomes
Birds watching.
December 1, 2007
I’ve posted the video of my talk at Defrag about the value of the implicit. It’s about four or five links down on this page. The original is here.
The talk is 30 minutes long and mainly incoherent.
And while I’m being self-centered, HearsayCulture just posted a podcast interview with me.
November 22, 2007
Here’s a poem, via Ethan Zuckerman.
The Icelandic Language
In this language, no industrial revolution;
no pasteurized milk; no oxygen, no telephone;
only sheep, fish, horses, water falling.
The middle class can hardly speak it.
In this language, no flush toilet; you stumble
through dark and rain with a handful of rags.
The door groans; the old smell comes
up from under the earth to meet you.
But this language believes in ghosts;
chairs rock by themselves under the lamp; horses
neigh inside an empty gully, nothing
at the bottom but moonlight and black rocks.
The woman with marble hands whispers
this language to you in your sleep; faces
come to the window and sing rhymes; old ladies
wind long hair, hum, tat, fold jam inside pancakes.
In this language, you can’t chit-chat
holding a highball in your hand, can’t
even be polite. Once the sentence starts its course,
all your grief and failure come clear at last.
Old inflections move from case to case,
gender to gender, softening consonants, darkening
vowels, till they sound like the sea moving
icebergs back and forth in its mouth.
— Bill Holm
September 5, 2007
Before the fall’s woodfired breath
rooms are refreshed
by recently shaved pencils and
the air between newly turned pages.
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