When I was sleeping in the sun
A window seeped into my eyes:
Bright green, soft green, then overrun
With orange. There was no gift, no prize
Greater than seeing it, no thought
Of anything behind that square.
Let God persuade you
What it’s going to mean,
You will be off the scene;
And hand it over now:
The shade you chose
For the walls, your coffee maker,
No archive and no
My enemy had hatched her young,
Made real the heady boasts she’d sung,
And when I saw the cherished thing,
I vowed it would not fly or sing.
My talons tightened in its fluff.
Their points were digging deep ...
Horace (65–8 b.c.) may not be the greatest lyric poet of all time, but he is certainly the greatest of the forgotten ones. He used to be the crown of the Latin curriculum when Latin pretty much was the curriculum, ...
An End to Teacher Tenure?
The Vergara v. California decision against the existing system of teacher tenure has me capering and cavorting as I anticipate nationwide change. But I need to add a dance of mourning for the possibilities my childhood friends in rural Ohio ...
An edgeless bird
Made of words
Passes above the yard.
Dense as a hoof,
Skids from the roof
A block of numbers, falling, striking hard.
In the water tank
Stirs, with a clank,
A serpent, gorged on images, and sleeping.
I was in the car yesterday afternoon, listening to the inauguration on the radio. At the first lines of Richard Blanco’s official poem, my husband, Tom (a tall, patient public defender with a passion for Byron and old-fashioned hats), ...
I was out of the country during most of Camille Paglia’s rise as a commentator on sex and culture. I encountered her writing directly for the first time only this summer, in a New York Times opinion piece about ...