Poetry Friday: A Poem in Eunoia Review and Another In The New Yorker’s Feb. 13 & 20, 2012 Double Issue

Self didn’t even know The New Yorker ran a double issue in February.  Must have been because she was so busy recovering from her India trip and packing for Bacolod!  Also in the issue is a short story by Famous Author Michael Chabon.

Self does eventually manage to get through all her back-logged reading.  She may work slowly, but she always gets to where she needs to be, in the end.

Anyhoo, here we are, it is Good Friday.  Self tries to imagine the processions wending through the towns and villages of Negros.  She so wishes she were still there, boo!

One of her last conversations with Zack went something like this:

“Do you think I’ll be all right?”

Zack’s deadpan response:  “Yes.  You’ll be home soon.”

By “Home” he meant:  California.  BWAH HA HA HA!

And self did leave, and she really was all right.  Zack, you are a genius!

Today self is happy:  she planted four gladiolus bulbs, discovered that a bag of bone meal that had been left in the rain for the past six weeks was crawling with smelly white grubs, and began reading above-mentioned double issue of The New Yorker.  She also has coffee ready and waiting for her in the kitchen.

In a jiffy, she’ll have to leave to return Atonement to the library, then mail out three stories.  She also has to get more toner for her HP laser printer.  Tomorrow, self, the husband and possibly Niece G will be going to see the exhibit “The Splendor of India’s Royal Court,” in the Asian Art Museum.  The exhibit’s last day is this Sunday, Easter Sunday.  If the weather holds, it should be a very, very nice weekend.

Without further ado, here is the poem from the Eunoia Review (which self reads pretty regularly).  It’s by Aaron Poller, who is described in the author bio as “an advanced nurse psychotherapist.”  Self will only post the first half; that’s so dear blog readers will be encouraged to check out the review:


      by Aaron Poller

I waited on the verge for disaster,
the next thing about to happen. Though

I looked, kept faithful watch, it did
not show. A trick of the imagination,

a mind unhinged, unsteady. That being
said, time folded upon itself, labyrinthine,

modest, having a frank talk with myself:
this week an earthquake, followed

(That’s the first half. Go to Eunoia Review to read the rest!)

* * * * *

And here’s an excerpt from Gerald Stern’s poem in The New Yorker. Self will also not post the entire poem, as she thinks it might be considered infringement of copyright or whatever.


by Gerald Stern

You can say what you want but I love Nietzsche most
when he stood between the terrified horse and the coachman
and intervened though I have pity for his sudden
madness even if he hated pity for he was
human then nor could one word matter anyhow,
and when he went insane, as I understand it,
he suffered from shame and sadness in different cities
for which we have the very late letters his vicious
sister never burned, and though I know
it wasn’t Heine or Emile Zola I thought
it had to be either Gogol or Dostoyevsky
who threw his arms around the bleeding horse;

(Isn’t that magnificent, dear blog readers? Self is so inspired!)

Stay tuned.

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