The Shakespeare sonnet she liked best began,
“Rise, resty muse.” Her own muse slept till noon,
wore purple socks. Then toast in bed, fig jam,
crumbs everywhere.
Espresso, macaroons together (dipped) cheer her, but favorite Illy demitasse cannot be found. And where's
her Shakespeare Sonnets? Willy-nilly, happens on Molière. In deep despair.
Then Mamet. Dammit!
—Christie & Muse
Popular Posts
-
On our Wednesday night in Durham, Michael Shanks threw out some interesting thoughts about Hadrian’s Wall. The Wall as a...
-
My father, Boyd Cochrell, was the author of two published novels, The Barren Beaches of Hell (which appeared also in a Brit...
-
Chapter 15 Sunol in late spring has as much to offer as anywhere else in the Bay Area. If it is compared to the Santa Cruz mountain...
-
(this in response to Alina’s exercise ) Peter Matthiessen and Derek Walcott are crewing the red boat...
-
When you're standing at a high point on Santorini looking out (which is what you're almost always doing there), the...
-
An evocative invitation from a friend / poet / writing teacher in Malaysia— Here's an image by the artist Odilon Redon. Try wri... -
A poem I wrote some years ago, "Belons," has been published in the Autumn Issue of F oreign Literary Journal , based in Sout... -
Time to write of Fall—the fallen and falling—nightfall, landfall, a favorite waterfall—Falmouth—things fallow, faltering—the warm falafel... -
This was inspired by an exercise, based on Virginia Woolf's book of the same name, and the various vignettes I've included here have...
No comments:
Post a Comment