December 2011

… mais les vrais voyageurs sont ceux-la qui partent
pour partir; coeurs legers, semblables aux ballons.


Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?


The snow falls gently and powdery from the sky,
A rider halts before Jalalabad
“Who’s there?” — “A British cavalryman,
I bring word from Afghanistan.” (more…)

The trees along this city street,
Save for the traffic and the trains,
Would make a sound as thin and sweet
As trees in country lanes. (more…)

And rising out of the midst, tall-topt, ship hemm’d, modern, American, V-shaped Manhattan with its compact mass, its spires, its cloud-touching edifices, group’d at the center—the green of the trees, and all the white, brown, and gray of the architecture well blended and as I see it, under a mirage of limpid sky, delicious light of heaven above, and June haze on the surface below.

In a booth with shining oranges
shines one orange who’s alive.
“Cara mia,
I’m the gloomiest of Adam’s sons,
but in the oranges and in you
lies so much sunlight that I lose
a little darkness just by looking.
All my darkness you could consume!” (more…)

Thoughts, go your way home.
depths of the soul and the sea.
In my view,
it is
to be
always serene.
My cabin is the worst
of all cabins  –
All night above me
Thuds a smithy of feet. (more…)

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