Sunday, February 19


Lekman's romanticism and indeed sexuality have always had a lot of agape in it, hinting at social consciousness only insofar as agape is social consciousness's engine and embodiment. I believe that's because he's Swedish. Be grateful there's still a nation where a fellow can preach an ostensibly apolitical humanism with a clear conscience.

Robert Christgau, "Expert Witness with Robert Christgau"

Saturday, January 21

notes on 'cantilena' by john peck

cantilena mus
The plain-song or canto-fermo in old church music; the melody or `air' in any composition, now usually the highest part.
A ballad

Chiefly pl. An arrangement of sloping boards, laths or slips of glass overlapping each other, so as to admit air, but exclude rain. Originally, such a contrivance as used to close the apertures of a `louvre' (sense 1). Cf. louvre-board in 5. Also used for other purposes, e.g. to deflect air issuing from an opening or to prevent the direct passage of light through it. Used in sing. in same sense; also, an individual slat or strip of such an arrangement.

An oppressively hot and blighting wind, blowing from the north coast of Africa over the Mediterranean and affecting parts of Southern Europe (where it is also moist and depressing). Usually with the.
fig. A blighting influence; a fiery storm.

To chew; now esp. to chew roughly, to champ; or to chew without swallowing

A going down; a military retreat, in allusion to that of the ten thousand Greeks under Xenophon, related by him in his Anabasis.

Monday, January 9

And in those features shuckings of the seals,

With love light-sundered gone for the dark to grow kind.

John Peck, "Tombeau for Vernon Watkins"

Friday, January 6

In your garbage rose the rulers of the restless

Run the Jewels, "Rubble Kings Theme (Dynamite)"

Thursday, November 17

I worried about rain and I worried about lightning

But I watched them off, to the light of the morning
Marking the slope, slung low in the highlands

Bon Iver, "00000 Million"

Thursday, August 25

all is not well

                                   I have been wondering
              What you are thinking about, and by now suppose
                                   It is certainly not me.
              But the crocus is up, and the lark, and the blundering
                                   Blood knows what it knows.
It talks to itself all night, like a sliding moonlit sea.

                                   Of course, it is talking of you.
              At dawn, where the ocean has netted its catch of lights,
                                   The sun plants one lithe foot
              On that spill of mirrors, but the blood goes worming
                                   Its warm Arabian nights,
Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root.

                                   Who shall, of course, be nameless.
              Anyway, I should want you to know I have done my
                                   As I'm sure you have, too.
              Others are bound to us, the gentle and blameless
                                   Whose names are not confessed
In the ceaseless palaver. My dearest, the clear unquarried blue

                                   Of those depths is all but blinding.
              You may remember that once you brought my boys
                                   Two little woolly birds.
              Yesterday the older one asked for you upon finding
                                   Your thrush among his toys.
And the tides welled about me, and I could find no words.

                                   There is not much else to tell.
              One tries one's best to continue as before,
                                   Doing some little good.
              But I would have you know that all is not well
                                   With a man dead set to ignore
The endless repetitions of his own murmurous blood.

Anthony Hecht, "A Letter"

Saturday, August 6

Oh my dear, my dear

Perhaps your casual glance
will settle from time to time
on the sea's travelling muscles
that flex and roll their strength
under its rain-pocked skin.
And will see where the salt winds
have blown bare the seaward side
of the berry bushes,
and will notice
the faint, fresh
smell of iodine.

Anthony Hecht, "Message from the City"