Let us sing to our city a new song,A song that remembers its name and its founders—Los Pobladores, the forgotten forty-four,Who built their pueblo beside a small river. They named the river for the Queen of the Angels,Nuestra Senora Reina de los Angeles.Poor, they were forced to the margins of . . . . Continue Reading »
It is love that lamps illuminelove in rattled kettles’ steamstaccato love in car horns, squeaking brakeslove between the marching linesin books, battalions, lives, and weeks the hum of love beyond the city lightsa full moon—love—behind the black-lined treesat night—a wound of . . . . Continue Reading »
And in the end is all ash,the translation of our praiseto ruin, and to long daysand nights at the window, the sash drawn tight against the dark—cold outside and colder stillthe stone, the hearth, the sillof an old house of bleached, stark bone? What is and what mighthave been tumble towards . . . . Continue Reading »
Already you are old, and I am too.Let’s join old age, embrace the time we’ve found,and make of winter’s shiver warmer groundand milder spring, as much as we can do. A man is never old who does not knowhe is—he shifts his course at the year’s new seams,weaves new thread into his cloth . . . . Continue Reading »
The sky pools red this Hallowtide.We enter, ease into a pew,And whisper prayers for those who died,For relatives she never knew. They’re my lost souls. She wears all blackFor later when she’ll trick or treatAnd thinks of candy in her sackAs I write names across the sheet. Midway through life, . . . . Continue Reading »
“Hast thy dark descending and most art merciful then.”Gerard Manley Hopkins, The Wreck of the Deutschland You who are both Beginning and Ending Though You have neither;Maker both of light and darkness, blending Judgment and . . . . Continue Reading »
“Hollywood Movie Posters is the oldest memorabilia store in the world located in the same location with the same proprietor.”—KABC, March 19, 2020 All through the first great war to end all wars,the siren-addled nights of its successor,up till last week, the sunbaked, time-warped doorsof . . . . Continue Reading »
I am no longer mine but wholly yours,so wield me as you will: assign my rankamong the great or small; fling wide the doorsto honor or humiliation, thanksor accusation—take my hand and leadme through; permit me influence and fameor have me follow you unseen and freedfrom weights I cannot . . . . Continue Reading »
Your appreciation of Gerard Manley Hopkins's poetry may be deepened by Catherine Randall’s concise and empathetic account. Continue Reading »
She told me that she wanted to be holyBut everything she saidSounded like she wanted to be happy.And I wanted to cryAnd shout out the difference.But I couldn’t find the syllablesAnd put them in the true order. —Jessica Hooten . . . . Continue Reading »
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