Saturday, June 30, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Some things are too awful for metaphor. What more haunting thing could children's blood be compared to than exactly that - children's blood.
Anyway, I love Neruda and some day I will make it to Valparaiso to visit his home there.
I'm Explaining A Few Things
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.
From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with it's dogs and children.
Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with it's statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings-
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black frairs spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
And one more that I fell in love with in Spanish class (it's more lovely, I think, in Spanish)
T0night I Can Write
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through the nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another’s. She will be another’s. Like my kisses before.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
And while we're on the subject, if you've never seen it, "Il Postino" is one of my favorite movies (loosely based on Neruda's exile in Europe)
It's a beautiful, wonderful film.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
"The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shockproof $#@! detector. This is the writer’s radar and all great writers have had it." Ernest Hemingway
"The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." Sylvia Plath
"Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very;' your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be." Mark Twain
"The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." Mark Twain
"Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." Gene Fowler
This last one rings especially true to me today. Sometimes I feel like I've chosen the most masochistic profession in the world. But then, every once in awhile, I'll get a day of absolute bliss from writing and there's nothing I'd rather be doing. I write for those days.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Go here. Happy watching.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Day Lady Died
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille Day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don't know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets
in Ghana are doing these days
I go on to the bank
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life
and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Negres
of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine
after practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with
her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
while she whispered a song along the keyboard
to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
I've been accused of being too domestic on here. I've also been accused of not blogging enough. I'm done with school (kind of) until July, so I have no excuse not to blog for the next month. Sorry ladies (guys? I know Dan never looks at this), but I love food, so here's another domestic blog. Anyway, cooking is chic. Everybody's doing it.
I found this recipe in a book I recently read, Eat, Drink and Weigh Less by Walter Willett (Harvard School of Public Health) and Mollie Katzen (author of the Moosewood Cookbooks and member of the Harvard School of Public Health Nutrition Roundtable). I loved the book - just good old common sense nutrition. I'm slowly trying to make the shift over to mostly whole grains (got Dan onto whole wheat pasta) and I no longer buy anything with trans fats.
You can find out your body score here. Kind of fun and depressing. Mine wasn't too bad, but I found out that I'm not eating as healthy as I thought.
Anyway, I recommend you read this book and try the recipes. Mollie also has some great cookbooks for kids you should check out if you have kids or if you're kind of retarded at cooking.
A frittata is basically an Italian omelet that you bake in the oven after pan-frying. Bless my oven's heart, its broiler doesn't work, so I just made this into a basic omelet. Just continue to cook in the pan until the top is set if you want to use the Lisa's-crappy-kitchen method. This recipe comes from Mollie Katzen.
4 large eggs
3 tablespoons crumbled goat cheese
2 tablespoons minced fresh mint leaves
Freshly ground black pepper
2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons finely minced scallion
3/4 cup peas (frozen/defrosted)
1/2 teaspoon minced garlic
1. Preheat the broiler to 500F and move the oven rack to the highest position.
2. In a medium bowl, whisk the eggs until smooth, then stir in 1 1/2 tablespoons of the goat cheese, along with the mint, a pinch or two of salt, and a few grinds of pepper. Set aside.
3. Place the pan over medium heat and wait 1 minute. Add the oil and swirl to coat the pan. Add the scallion and peas, along with another pinch of salt. Saute for about 2 minutes, then stir in the garlic.
4. Pour in the egg mixture and let it sit still over the heat for about 30 seconds, then gently lift the edges with a spatula, and tilt the pan in all directions to let the loose egg move toward the edges. Allow it to sit for 5 minutes, until just about set. The top will still be wet.
5. Sprinkle on the remaining goat cheese, then transfer the pan to the broiler and broil for 2 to 3 minutes, or until the top is golden.
6. Using an oven mitt or pot holder, carefully remove the pan from the broiler, and let the frittata sit for about a minute to set. Loosen the edges with a spatula and transfer (sliding or flipping it) to a plate. Serve hot, warm, or at room temperature.