Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Memory of A Porch By Donald Justice

What I remember
is how the wind chime
commenced to stir
as she spoke of her childhood.
As though the simple
death of a pet cat,
Buried with flowers.
Had brought to the porch
A rumor of storms
dying out over
some dark Atlantic.
At least I heard
The thing begin-
A thin, skeletal music-
And in the deep silence
Below all memory
The sighing of ferns
Half sleep in their boxes.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

A Bookmark By Tom Disch

Four years ago I started reading Proust.
Although I'm past the halfway point, I still
have seven hundred pages of reduced
type left before I reach the end. I will
slog through. It cannot get much more dull than what
is happening now: he's buying crepe-de, chine
wraps and a real, well-documented hat
For his imaginary Albertine.
Oh, what a slimy sort he must have been-
So weak, so sweetly poiwsonous, so fey!
Four years ago, by God! -and even then
How I was looking forward to the day
I would be able to forgive, at last,
And to forget "Remembrance of Things Past."