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Reading Lists

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Reading Lists

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Adrienne Rich

Wrote about Aunt Jennifer’s

Rings and tigers on screens

And diving into a wreck

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These were the poems

We interns were assigned

To read and teach,

And that was all right

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But reading on one’s own

With no one’s rubric but

One’s own

Is so much better;

I’m sure we were supposed

To instill some kind of

Critical process regarding

Life and reading in it

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But I’m not sure

How well that worked,

What kind of processes

We might have instilled,

What seeds grown,

What personal

Allegiances to one’s own

Mind and heart

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So was a new generation of

New readers of poetry

Begun?  Has it flourished?

Are they among the ones who

Turn to poetry when there’s

A tragedy?

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(read up how we

took to verse after the

Towers fell)

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I like Rich, though that

Would not be enough

In that we were serving

A learning process

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It was a small, state school;

I never heard from anyone

Again, though nothing and

No one is due me

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A state away and many

Years, I wish us well

And to take up small books

Of miracles from time to time;

I do this, Mary Oliver’s

Most recently

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C L Couch

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Photo by Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

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“The Rape of the Lock”

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“The Rape of the Lock”

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Is a poem-story

About a theft of hair

(a basis for satire)

From times when

“Rape” meant abduction

(bad enough, though

if you know

The Fantastiks, then

you know)

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Even so, not a good

Word, made worse by

The way we use it

Now—given charge

And change

With reason

Words have power,

Don’t they?  Sometimes

More than action: try

Proclaiming “dictator”

Inside democracy

(listen to the only

speech in Chaplin’s

The Great Dictator)

Or cry “freedom” inside

Tyranny

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Then there’s

“Joy” in a

Cheerless place,

Challenging the time

Another way

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Have a gentle day

And mind (and mine)

Your choice of words, and

Take comfort from

The people with whom

You don’t have to

Fret so much

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C L Couch

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Photo by Kristian Strand on Unsplash

New York, United States

Type

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Ray Bradbury’s Writing Table

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Ray Bradbury’s Writing Table

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I hope it’s true

He showed it to us,

Talked us through it

Right before each

Episode;

So many toys and

Other things, reminders

Of this world

And other worlds;

There was a metal

Spaceship, the old kind

You wind up; and

There were toy dinosaurs

And many other things,

Curios and totems

Any of which

Might become

Dandelion Wine,

A Martian chronicle

Or Something Wicked

This Way Comes

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I hope it’s true

And not a set piece,

Though I suppose it doesn’t

Matter; the writing

Table, writing place

Has been lodged in

My brain, coming

Up as memory

Every now and then,

Evocation of

Evocation, and of course

I have my own symbols

Now around me, and

I trust that

You have yours

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C L Couch

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The Ray Bradbury Theatre was a show first broadcast in the 1980s.

Ray Bradbury was a writer who created many monumental works, among them Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, Dandelion Wine, and Something Wicked This Way Comes.

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Photo by Charl Folscher on Unsplash

Part of a series of concept photos I took during lockdown using drawing mannequins.

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Imposition of Immortality

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Imposition of Immortality

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The tree outside looked as if it were leaning toward the window.  I mean big parts, think branches and the bow.  Black against a gray sky, it all looked dramatic.  Worse, a little scary.  Trees have fallen down before.  In the back, a large one, bringing many wires with it.  In the backyard of the house I grew up in in Pittsburgh, a tall and wide willow.  Fell in the night, covering the backyard to be seen in the daylight.  The first big thing to fall in my nascent awareness.  Will the new tree fall?  I don’t know.  Who does?  The squirrels and dogs walked by?  Qué será, será, the Spanish say (and Doris Day).  It is what it is, we say these days.  All we are is dust in the wind.  I guess that goes for imposing trees as well.

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C L Couch

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Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

By William Wordsworth

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45536/ode-intimations-of-immortality-from-recollections-of-early-childhood

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Photo by Diane Helentjaris on Unsplash

Purcellville, Virginia

Old carved tombstone of a weeping willow tree in a cemetery in the countryside near Purcellville, Virginia in Loudoun County. The cemetery was integrated with the graves of African American and white Americans as was the nearby church.

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Reading Romance, Gothica (two poems)

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Reading Romance, Gothica (two poems)

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Reading Romance

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Standing there,

Waiting for approval,

The ingenue wonders

If she should

Enter the room

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Strangers, unaware,

Are dancing to a

Waltz she’s known

Since childhood

Always listening

From the stairs,

A risky place for

Children, though with

Darkness behind

And light pouring from

The party floor,

Sneaking a look at

Parties was

Irresistible

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I’m sure you understand

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Now she’s here,

Inside the first

Arc, grown up

Into her story:

Does someone wait

Inside?  Should

She remain inside

The question mark

Or take another step

Step toward

Confirmation,

The start of

Act 5, then

Resolution?

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Questions demand

Answers; they

Crawl along the

Bannister; she’ll

Take the step

So we might breathe

Into the

Final chapters

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Gothica

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Tarn,

A Gothic word

For swamp

(try moor

in the British Isles)

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I look up through

The window

At black branches

Fronting a sky of unformed

Cloud, tunneling

Everything to gray

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November’s tilting;

We head

Toward winter’s reign,

Cold and gloomy

All our storytelling

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There might be a

Ghost—there certainly

Will be ghosts

Inhabiting one place,

One will or another

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The house that

Has a crack in it,

Ready to descend

With all the

Failing generations

(I think you know

the one I mean)

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But there’s

A house of every heart,

A sprit calling

At the door or, when

Unattended,

Wailing like a banshee

Uncommissioned

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Everything will

Open and then close up

At the last

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A deserted house—the

Tarn shall have it

(the swamp, the moor)

From which may

Emerge new

Heroes to try

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C L Couch

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Photo by Tim Rebkavets on Unsplash

Eltz Castle, Wierschem, Germany

We woke up at 3am so we could drive to Germany. We arrived just in time for sunrise and that’s how this shot came to live. The reflection was made with the reflection of the screen of my phone.

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Favors

(x = space)

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Favors

(in pandemic time)

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The toilet’s broken

Thank me for sharing

Since I rent,

It’s up to someone else

And someone else to fix it

Meanwhile, I wait

As best I may

And all my systems

It’s not as if one can run

Down to the gas station and

Use the loo, since

The disease is keeping many things

Locked up (as it should)

It’s not the worst of things

I’ll tell myself as I

Keep waiting through the day

My brother’s home from the hospital

To rest and improve

From what was diagnosed

To say the least,

He is more important

And I’m thankful

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C L Couch

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Photo by Gilles Desjardins on Unsplash

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Jitters

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Jitters

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Too many things

To contemplate

That are unpleasant

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My brother’s health,

The exit of a losing

President (You’re fired!

were he a contestant

in that show),

A broken bedframe

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Heart health generally and

How do I renew my

Driver’s license in

The lockdown? How

Is the rest of my family?

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Well, I make too much

Of each thing,

I suppose, and

Altogether let the

Weight press down

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This is maudlin (sorry)

As I’m sure there

Are good things

Everywhere and

Even here; maybe I

Can find some; maybe

They will remind me

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C L Couch

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Photo by Pete Nuij on Unsplash

British Columbia, Canada

Porcupine with flowers.

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News about My Brother

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News about My Brother

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Something’s wrong

She says it’s not COVID

Maybe something

With his heart

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They’re waiting for a bed

As all hospitals are

Currently, especially

Challenged

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This is my brother

The ablest of us:

Muscled

Well-groomed,

Building a life

From the Army to the factory

To executive positions

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Then when corporate-raiding

In the ‘80s ruined so many

Lives, he built a business

Helping children

Learn

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He married Beth

They have two children,

Sons (nephews) who

Are themselves husbands

And fathers now

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This news is not about me

But him and them,

And they are far away

Though hearts string us together

And certain rituals

From time to time

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Not me

But I am shaking with the news

And the frightened parts

Of my imagination

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Earlier this morning

(before the news),

I threw salt over

My left shoulder;

If it could help

Or a voodoo doll

Or a contract with a witch,

Then let it

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In the mean time

I’ll be praying

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In the mean time,

Please be praying for your own

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C L Couch

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Photo by Dušan Veverkolog on Unsplash

Tenerife, Canary Islands, Spain

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Missing at Home

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Missing at Home

(Veterans Day, Remembrance Day 2020)

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“A Soldier of the

Great War”

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Let’s not miss the irony

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While (more so)

Missing the life

All the lives

That used to be young

People (other ages,

too)

Of both genders

Who served each other

And the national

Cause

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So many who can’t,

Naturally (or unnaturally)

Enough, remember

Anything

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We must remember them

And for them

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C L Couch

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Photo by Cross-Keys Media on Unsplash

Thiepval, France

The grave of an unknown soldier at the World War One British memorial to the missing of the Somme.

Over here, we called it “the war to end all wars.”

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