Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Released a few years after the Summer of Love, Frank Perry's Last Summer centers on a bizarre love triangle of pretty, emotionally stunted and privileged youth and an awkward misfit who enters their circle. I'm always on the lookout for authentic films that are more concerned with behavior than plot, with characters trapped within a certain time period. Like his cinematic version of The Swimmer, Perry's film definitely delivers the goods in that regard.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Thursday night's Wilde Boys salon discussing Elizabeth Bishop has this poem "North Haven" on my mind right now.
In Memoriam: Robert Lowell
I can make out the rigging of a schooner
a mile off; I can count
the new cones on the spruce. It is so still
the pale bay wears a milky skin; the sky
no clouds except for one long, carded horse's tail.
The islands haven't shifted since last summer,
even if I like to pretend they have—
drifting, in a dreamy sort of way,
a little north, a little south, or sidewise—
and that they're free within the blue frontiers of bay.
This month our favorite one is full of flowers:
buttercups, red clover, purple vetch,
hackweed still burning, daisies pied, eyebright,
the fragrant bedstraw's incandescent stars,
and more, returned, to paint the meadows with delight.
The goldfinches are back, or others like them,
and the white-throated sparrow's five-note song,
pleading and pleading, brings tears to the eyes.
Nature repeats herself, or almost does:
repeat, repeat, repeat; revise, revise, revise.
Years ago, you told me it was here
(in 1932?) you first "discovered girls"
and learned to sail, and learned to kiss.
You had "such fun," you said, that classic summer.
("Fun"—it always seemed to leave you at a loss...)
You left North Haven, anchored in its rock,
afloat in mystic blue...And now—you've left
for good. You can't derange, or rearrange,
your poems again. (But the sparrows can their song.)
The words won't change again. Sad friend, you cannot change.
Friday, March 4, 2011
On Removing the Wedding Band
As though undreaming the mountain
from the sea or tweezering hands from
a watch, a quick-fix change of regimes:
a democracy lost to a monarchy, an empty sudden
village, and elsewhere the wedding party lining up
like a lost tribe of refugees. As though a reverse
whisper of vows into a pageant of elegant ears
when the heat in the O cooled its “till death do us,”
and the storm inside seething below
the flowers, gowns, and cake, its own Institution.
from the collection Holding Company
listen to the poem here