I found this poem by Lyn Lifshin in a book review:
I can mourn
you, remember when
I first held you, dream
you thru nights
where you’re missing.
But that’s really a
lie. I need more, to
be able to put your name
in a poem and not
apologize for staying
in a week, unable to
see anybody and then
finally on the first day I
join the living, have
someone say at my dark
sadness, ‘‘well we all
have days like that.”
Last Friday our friend and colleague, brother and mentor, Bug suffered a critical heart failure. Those who met him knew him as a loving and compassionate cat, always interested in taking time to enjoy life with others and show them the finer sides of living.
He was an inspiration and an ally through thick and thin. Bug stood strong next to me, providing strength and energy when and where it was needed most. I loved him very much and he will be missed.
Dana Goodyear’s blog turned me on to this Aimee Man video, that somehow seems appropriate:
Who has said it any better than Alfred, Lord Tennyson?
I falter where I firmly trod,
And falling with my weight of cares
Upon the great world’s altar-stairs
That slope thro’ darkness up to God,I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.
Be well and be safe Bug. My thoughts are with you. Thank you for your help in saving poetry.
I can think of few things more ironic that this:
The tornado that struck Kansas State University’s campus in Manhattan destroyed a wind erosion laboratory….
Research complete.
The New Yorker often has good poetry. This one reminds me of how far we have come from the old meaning of fishing:
And now he feels he’s in his element,
Baiting a hook and casting forth the line,
And through clear water sees a heaven-sent
Swift flash of silver rise into air and shine.
Ah, let it go-go, dart back to the deep.
A lovely thing, but much too small to keep.
Does a phisher ever say “nah, this one is much too small”? Not enough data, or maybe too poor to steal from?
Probably not. The modern phisher is about as unlikely to follow catch-and-release rules as a greedy seagull. Or, as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow put it in Hiawatha’s Fishing:
Three whole days and nights alternate
Old Nokomis and the seagulls
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
And upon the sands lay nothing
But the skeleton of Nahma.
And upon the silicon lay nothing but the skeleton of users..