Catherine Savage Brosman

She is already what she will become.In crimson cape, her neck pierced by a sword,she holds the palm of peace and martyrdom— both suffering and glory, her reward. The striking textile pattern, a rosette, recurs in hues of amethyst and jade, suggesting jewels, perhaps an amulet for Christians. . . . . Continue Reading »

Their headstones now have sunken into sand,amid tall weeds, some cholla, scattered sage,the writing visible, but not at hand.Their years among the dead compose my age.That which they did was well done, be it said.Their journey, both of reason and ideal,was beautiful, if odd—one step ahead,one . . . . Continue Reading »

We’re superannuated now, no doubt. Impossible to overlook the facts: age blotches skin, puts muscle tone to rout, winnows our hair, and gives us cataracts. Pat’s doctors rule. No whisky, gin, or wine; he should not take long flights nor go abroad; he eats rat-poison pills (hardly benign). . . . . Continue Reading »

We stream on color: blue, aquamarine, dove grey. To look straight down gives vertigo, but farther out the surface seems serene, both concentration and reflective flow. Horizons offer us expanse”confine us, also. Every wavelet, though unique, resembles all. The latitudes decline; there’s . . . . Continue Reading »

Inventing a refined disease afflicting all the human race, he took away ideas of ease, exposed us, left us in disgrace. We’re ego, libido, and id, with sundry drives”a warring beast” while Superego keeps the lid on crime, in principle, at least. Like Oedipus, though, men would kill . . . . Continue Reading »

A bold conception, said to be first-class, with varied styles of gesture, steps, and play, plus music, avant-garde, by Philip Glass” I’m speaking of a Twyla Tharp ballet. The scoring calls for strings, flute, lots of brass, and electronic noises. All convey remarkable monotony, alas. The . . . . Continue Reading »

He’s not alone”blue herons like to feed here, egrets, mallards, ducks of lesser fame; but his is an especially fine breed” bold head with yellow crown, a stately name. He stalks by night”and, happily for us, at twilight too, along the bayou’s verge, immobile nearly, . . . . Continue Reading »

With Notre-Dame, the Sacré-Coeur, and all the rest, obscure or famous”Trinity, Saint-Julian-the-Poor, Saint-Roch, Saint-Paul” it’s just another Paris church to see. For we have come too late, I think”the call to holiness will miss this century; in recent years . . . . Continue Reading »