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 »
This is a book about how poetry can save you. More specifically, it is a book about how poetic rhythm can reset the harmony of your body and soul. In his powerful and original reading of Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy, Stephen Blackwood uncovers a sustained musical therapy during which the imprisoned poet moves from baffled despair at the world’s injustice to contemplative joy over providential order.
In light of our upcoming poetry event on October 25, here's an introduction to Christian Wiman's verse.
Why Homer Matters by adam nicolson henry holt and co., 320 pages, $30 Homer on the Gods and Human Virtue: Creating the Foundations of Classical Civilization by peter j. ahrensdorf cambridge, 278 pages, $45 The question of Homer’s existence is a little like the question of . . . . Continue Reading »
Bumbling, ungainly, sag-chinned, laughable: on land, the pelicans concede their natures. Hugging the sand, one tries to hide his features, long neck scrunched into shoulders, abashed bill well down. Airborne, they’re different: choreographed. Baroque danseurs, their slow-beat wing pavane impends . . . . Continue Reading »
Your Dad is bad, your Mum is mad,Your brothers all run wild,And you were born with feet of horn,For you are Satan’s child. The fairies stole your soul at birthAnd stashed it God-knows-where.You are the wretched of the earth,Past pity and past care. The fairies stole away your soulAnd smashed it on . . . . Continue Reading »
John Glenn Smith’s last day at home was hot, cicadas scratching out their shrilling rhythm from the deeper woods behind the house. Everywhere he went, the sound was with him. That morning he went out to pick the garden in overalls and long-sleeved checkered shirt, a hat to shade his head, his . . . . Continue Reading »
The Anglican pastor and poet George Herbert died of tuberculosis on March 1, 1633, just one month shy of his fortieth birthday. Like his famous contemporary and friend John Donne and his nineteenth-century American echo Emily Dickinson, Herbert did not publish his poems during his lifetime. From . . . . Continue Reading »
Jesus was a healernever turned a patient downnever charged coin or conversionstarted off with dust and spittlethen re-tuned lives to patternsimply by his attentionoften surprised himself a littleby his unbounded abilityJesus was a healerreattached his captor’s earopened senses, unjammed . . . . Continue Reading »
The books of 2014, like the books of any year, utterly exceed our grasp. In one aspect, they suggest (they mimic, we could say) the divinely gratuitous excess of Creation; seen from another angle, their multiplicity reflects our fallenness, our propensity to error, our confusion. We need to hold . . . . Continue Reading »
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