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Jim Culleny
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Analogous Mountain At the age of seven, I heard about the magic mountain in the fairy tale. At the age of fourteen, I read that mountains are not single but come in ranges. At the age of twenty-one, I realized... Continue reading
Posted yesterday at 3quarksdaily
The Land of Is The woman whose backpack I helped lift to the baggage rack in that suddenly sweet compartment of a train was an art historian from Marseilles. We talked Giotto all the way to Naples, and fell asleep... Continue reading
Posted 2 days ago at 3quarksdaily
Not for Chopin Don’t put off your shower any more listening to Chopin. Take the Preludes personally; he’s telling you that he can describe a progression that you yourself have been unable to see, shapely, broad light at one-thirty, evening... Continue reading
Posted 4 days ago at 3quarksdaily
Signature Of All Things I My head and shoulders, and my book In the cool shade, and my body Stretched bathing in the sun, I lie Reading beside the waterfall – Boehme's 'Signature of all Things.' Through the deep July... Continue reading
Posted 6 days ago at 3quarksdaily
After the Opera The curtain parts one last time and the ones who killed and were killed, who loved inordinately, who went berserk, were flayed alive, descended to Hades, raged, wept, schemed— victims and victimizers alike— smile and nod and... Continue reading
Posted 7 days ago at 3quarksdaily
A Psalm for Scaffolders who balanced like tightrope walkers, who could run up the bracing faster than you or I could climb a ladder, who wore red shorts and worked bare-chested, who cut their safety vests in half, a psalm... Continue reading
Posted Oct 11, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
Fairy Tale In a fairy tale the gods would snatch you out through the navel or the thigh of your goddess or by some Caesarian operation and so you would come out complete with armoury: bows and arrows, quiver and... Continue reading
Posted Oct 10, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
"There are many here among us who feel that that life is but a joke." —Bob Dylan I Am the Poet I am the poet of reality I say the earth is not an echo Nor man an apparition; But... Continue reading
Posted Oct 8, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
Come In As I came to the edge of the woods, Thrush music -- hark! Now if it was dusk outside, Inside it was dark. Too dark in the woods for a bird By sleight of wing To better its... Continue reading
Posted Oct 7, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
A Sudden Sketch Poem Gary's sink has a shroudy burlap the rub brush tinware plout leans on right side like a red woman's hair the faucet leaks little lovedrops The teacup's upsidedown with visions of green mountains and brown lousy... Continue reading
Posted Oct 6, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
Halley's Comet Miss Murphy in first grade wrote its name in chalk across the board and told us it was roaring down the stormtracks of the Milky Way at frightful speed and if it wandered off its course and smashed... Continue reading
Posted Oct 5, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
The First Words [from the Romanian of Marin Sorescu] The first words got polluted Like river water in the morning Flowing with the dirt Of blurbs and the front pages. My only drink is meaning from the deep brain, What... Continue reading
Posted Oct 4, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
F this and F that One of the fringe benefits ............................ of turning sixteen: .............. a boy can tell the whole world to get fucked and fly ............................ down the street, .............. as if his car were on fire and... Continue reading
Posted Oct 3, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
Out of the horror there rises a musical ache that is beautiful . . . —James Wright Monkey ... —an excerpt 5 There is a hill. Men run top hill. Men take hill. Give hill to man. Me and my... Continue reading
Posted Oct 1, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
The Symbolic Life They kept showing up, for days, dead on the windowsill, and for days I did nothing about the ladybugs except to ask if their entering the house unnoticed and dying before I saw them was symbolic. Thinking... Continue reading
Posted Sep 30, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
June You stand in the scuffed Box Brownie square, pretty and slim in your summer shorts, your Heddy Lemarr hair, in front of a stage-left parasol somewhere on the Côte d’Azure between your two young daughters, like the border guard... Continue reading
Posted Sep 29, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
In My Spare Time During my long, boring hours of spare time I sit to play with the earth’s sphere. I establish countries without police or parties and I scrap others that no longer attract consumers. I run roaring rivers... Continue reading
Posted Sep 28, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
What happens in the poem is from long time, not event time, though it was an event too. —Nils Peterson September Ritual, Mayrhofen Mid September early snow, – so, from the high pastures six cows, horns streaming with flowers, flow... Continue reading
Posted Sep 27, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
Instinct Although he’s apparently the youngest (his little Rasta-beard is barely down and feathers), most casually connected (he hardly glances at the girl he’s with, though she might be his wife), half-sloshed (or more than half) on picnic-whiskey teen-aged father,... Continue reading
Posted Sep 26, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
What It Was Like If you want to know what it was like, I'll tell you what my tío told me: There was a truck driver, Antonio, who could handle a rig as easily in reverse as anybody else straight... Continue reading
Posted Sep 24, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
The Old Dancer He one-last-efforts his good foot over the other to affect a natural pose, and to keep it from spragging along the floor as I wheel his chair. The old dancer, whose left side is now the recalcitrant... Continue reading
Posted Sep 23, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
What Makes a Poem The barley and the manner of its malting its standing up to the wind its sprouting and drying its gradual ripening The water and the manner of its flowing traces of peat and mineral its floral... Continue reading
Posted Sep 22, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
The Song of the Wandering Aengus I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on... Continue reading
Posted Sep 21, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
Nostalgia for the present . I don’t know about the rest of you, but I feel the cruelest nostalgia -not for the past- but nostalgia for the present. A novice desires to approach the Lord but is permitted to do... Continue reading
Posted Sep 20, 2017 at 3quarksdaily
The Cucumber The snow is knee-deep in the courtyard and still coming down hard: it hasn't let up all morning. We're in the kitchen. On the table, on the oilcloth, spring— on the table there's a very tender young cucumber,... Continue reading
Posted Sep 19, 2017 at 3quarksdaily