It rained so hard it scared the dog. It thundered and crashed; lightning flashed. It rained, rained, rained all night.
Note to Mary: I wanted to do something this April, National Poetry Month, and a friend suggested that we join the Poetry Free-for-all and write a poem a day. I didn't really want to post them here but I couldn't figure out their software at first and had to link somewhere. So glad you're reading.
Tonight we had steamed mussels over organic Soba noodles (in
a butter sauce);spicy chowder made with fresh Bahamian conch and grouper chunks
(Joe caught it !); Ernie’s Bimini bread; red wine (a Pinot Noir from the
Willamette Valley, thank you very much); and sweet honeydew melon and
blackberries for dessert.
Ask Candy, Ralph, and PJ--can Pat cook? Yes!
Oh, wait, I forgot the hors d'oeuvres—loquats (from the
backyard tree), pureed avocado, and smoked shrimp.
What was that you said to me last week? Everyone's a comic? The book case you thought I might also like(below)
has a serious disadvantage. It would make my slightly messy house even worse.
But, hey, thanks for thinking of me.
The latest issue of the New York Review of Books includes Brad Leithauser's thoughts on Louis MacNeice. I always learn something from Mr. Leithauser's articles and enjoy reading them very much. I'm interested in his reading of the poem, "The Brandy Glass," as "macabre, irrational, and grotesque," which I found merely sad, but I get his point. You'll have to get his commentary from NYROB but you can have my take right here below.
The Brandy Glass Louis Mac Neice
Only let it form within his hands once more-- The moment cradled like a brandy glass. Sitting alone in the empty dining hall... From the chandeliers the snow begins to fall Piling around carafes and table legs And chokes the passage of the revolving door. The last diner, like a ventriloquist's doll Left by his master, gazes before him, begs: 'Only let it form within my hands once more.'
To figure out that first line, "Only let it form within his hands once more--," I began with the next, "the moment cradled like a brandy glass." A man (a person,[a poet?]) sits alone in the empty dining hall wishing to recapture/savor the 'moment' which has gone. The brandy glass is empty (the poet doesn't say glass of brandy); the chandeliers don't emit a glowing light--they're turned off now and the chill descends. The place is closing. The diners have gone home and the 'last diner,' who had been brought to life 'like a ventriloquist's doll' by the brandy, the food and talk, the warm conviviality of the place, is now alone. He is only alive in the company of others. That he 'cradles' the glass is the mark of his loneliness. He could have spun the glass on the bar and jauntily walked out, happy over an evening well spent, but no. We know he is desolate because he 'begs' (Fate? his muse?) for what he no longer has in his hands. Looking into the empty glass all he sees is what he lost.
Around here they say the storm isn’t over until you get your lights (phone, roof, whatever) back. And, yes, for me the storm is finally over.I got my phone lines back; that means internet. I missed it more than water. Well, okay, not more than water but damn near. So I spent all day with you--reading your blogs, your articles, poems, and emails. I admired your paintings and studied your comments. I thought about all of us in the context of the larger things—after reading Jimmy Carter's sorrowful piece on America, for instance—and the smaller things, too—a poet standing in his yard and looking at an apple tree.Just want to say I missed my normal life. It’s great to be back.
Came across this pic from the summer and realised I have not seen some of you since then! Here's an update: we spent Saturday at the bride and groom's for the Notre Dame game. Wait until you go there; it is like a first class sports bar--leather couches, great food, three TVs, and outside games for the children.
Last week was Sheila's birthday so we had dinner in Miami at the Melting Pot (Sheila, Eddie, Adam, Candy and Ralph, and Pat and I). Fondue lives!
Tomorrow is our anniversary so the G______s are taking us to a la Turca, the Mediterranean restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard. They smoke from a hookah at midnight on Tuesdays but I'm pretty sure we'll all be home in bed by then.