A lovely launch last week, at San Francisco's Mechanics' Institute Library (and chess club), with readers from far-flung places joined for a few hours in heady words.
More soon . . .
poetry&prose
creative ramblings & reverie
A lovely launch last week, at San Francisco's Mechanics' Institute Library (and chess club), with readers from far-flung places joined for a few hours in heady words.
More soon . . .
Liber Floridus ("Book of Flowers") was one of the earliest and most famous medieval encyclopedias, compiled between 1090 and 1120 by Lambert, Canon of Saint-Omer. Lambert wrote Liber Floridus in Latin, originally, and it was later translated into French as Le Livre fleurissant en fleurs.
image: Leviathan, Liber Floridus
“The act of writing itself is like an act of love. There is contact. There is exchange too. We no longer know whether the words come out of the ink onto the page, or whether they emerge from the page itself where they were sleeping, the ink merely giving them colour.”
(Georges Rodenbach, The Bells of Bruges)
image: E. Phillips Fox, The Letter
Sit now
very quietly
in some lovely wild place,
and listen
to the silence.
And I say that this, too,
is a poem.
(Mary Oliver)
image: artist unknown
image: Dome, Slatki dome
Days written in flowers—
optimism, fragility,
constancy, consolation,
bashfulness,
wisdom and even hope—
fingers stained
with the bright-colored ink
of all they want to say
before it is too late,
the urgent messages
hands cup, consult,
the oracles
of filament, stamen, petal
flaring like Pythia's flame
in far Delphi. Visited
once, and ever held within.
(I liked to learn that those seeking the counsel of Apollo would offer laurel branches, money, and a black ram.)
image: Old-fashioned Ladies and Gentlemen Too
Reading, like tracing
fossils, ancient marine life
in white chalk cliffs,
remains or impressions
of thoughts and dreams
cast into immutable form.
Like stone maybe, but
always giving, carrying
forwards and back.
Fluent in voice and time.
image: Blanche-Augustine Camus, woman reading
James Merrill wrote in his memoir, A Different Person (1993), about visiting a doctor about his depression, saying that he didn't know how to live or how to love, he just knew how to write a poem. The doctor, he said, "listened closely, then acted with undreamed-of kindness and dispatch. 'Come with me,' he said, in a flash ushering me out of his downtown office and onto the back seat of a smart little pale-green motorscooter. I put my arms, as instructed, about his stout, gray-suited person, and off we went in sunlight, through traffic, under trees, past architecture, over the muddy river to lunch." (The Writer’s Almanac, 3/3/3)Our hope is that this collection of writing will give readers the same je ne sais quois that brief but immense lunchtime voyage gave us—encouragement for going on; inspiration to do something simply good for ourselves each ordinary day; a smile; a moment of respite or recognition; time out from global numbing; a pause for weirdness, wonder, and delight. We want to share what gives us pleasure or some keener satisfaction putting down as well as picking up.