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Terence Winch
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Yes, falling in love, for sure, but the term suggests the more libidinous, as opposed to romantic, aspects of that state of being. Or maybe that's just me. I had three siblings 10+ years older than me, and I remember hearing this song as a kid & being very intrigued by it. (The song pops up in the film version of Angela's Ashes.)
Sounds tasty. But remember: never give pamplemousse to your pamplemouse.
My Secret Life and Lady Chatterley's Lover---erotic, forbidden texts with the power to blow the minds of adolescents in the mid 20th Century. Or so I've heard.
Thank you, Tomas.
Earle---Thank you so much for this lovely and, as always, insightful response.
Thank you, Mr. Murray.
Thank you, mo chara.
Thank you, DL.
Thanks, Abbie.
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Mother’s Day My mother did not live to be a hundred like the old nuns in the Sacred Heart convent, sheltered from life. She was fifty-five when she died. I was the baby of the family. It does not seem so long ago to me that I snuck into bed between her and my father, no greater antidote to fear than that. Life is not a slow read. We speed through it, pages flipping. After her funeral, I hated the smell of flowers. She used to make my brother take me to the movies to help me breathe in the cool dark of the air-conditioned Elsmere. Now all I want to do is watch movies in bed, central air humming through the house. I cried so much when she died that it still embarrasses me. She used to visit me in my dreams, even sometimes speaking to me from the beyond. But I haven’t seen or heard from her in years. My own heart thumps wildly in my chest sometimes, when I think about the story ending. My arms are swollen from allergy shots, my son examining bumblebees in the backyard. I inhale as deeply as I can. Flowers don’t bother me anymore. [This poem was written, I think, ca. 2000. The photo shows me, checking the time, and my best friend, Dennis O'Toole, sitting on my mother's lap in 1948 in Rockaway Beach, NYC. My mother was Bridie Flynn from Co. Galway, Ireland.] Continue reading
Posted May 13, 2018 at The Best American Poetry
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Fake (Poetry) News! But thank you anyway. And now: back to my process.
C'mon, Mitch. John Lennon is always worth thinking of. And Mr. Dylan too, of course. In this poem, I think I had Hank Williams more than anyone else in the back of my mind.
You & Ray Charles go way back, as I remember well.
Thank you, Michael.
Thanks, Earle, for your (as always) insightful response. I love Otis Redding. In the '70s, I idolized him. He was so present inside whatever song he was singing, with "I've Been Loving you Too Long (To Stop Now)" his masterpiece. The John Keats of Soul. Who knows what he would have given us with a longer life.
Well, thank you, mo dheirfiúr. You would have had fun had you been with us.
Thanks, Earle. I have become a daily communicant of TG4, so I will look for this show in their archives. It's an intriguing theory on the face of it, but I will stay skeptical for now. I do, however, very much appreciate your adding to the information and discussion here, which is always something I shoot for with these posts.
Well, thank you, Prof. Berger. It's a nice surprise to find you here.
This comment comes from Dublin-born poet Trevor Joyce: "I spent quite a few summers as a kid just about two miles back the road towards Craughwell, and I often passed that little graveyard, but I had no interest in poetry then. These days, every time I drive to or from Galway, I try to visit there, and also stop where there's a good view of Rahasane Turlough. I recall once hearing Michael Hartnett quoting a translation of the last verse of that poem: Here I stand / With my arse to the wall / Singing songs / For sweet fuck all."
Amazing exchange. I have been reading I Am Flying into Myself and loving it, but now I feel I may be violating Knott's wishes. I never met him, but as a young poet I loved The Naomi Poems (by the mysterious Saint Geraud), Nights of Naomi, and Auto-Necrophilia, all of which I still have. He was brilliant and original.
Thanks, Billy. You're absolutely right---it's a bit unkempt, but at least there is a "Cemetery of the Poets" in Ireland. On the other hand, it seems that Yeats's very well-tended grave in Sligo is home to some random bones from France.
Thank you, my friend. Very cool. I just got the book a few hours ago, so I am amazed at your speed!
Thanks, Chris. And where's the Tomb of the Unknown Poet?