“Life is just one ecstasy after another.” Margaret Anderson
Oliver the pit-beagle found a dead, stiff, contorted snake on the ground as we made our way around the “walk” for the first time this season and raised it gleefully in his jaws until Gil took it and tossed it in the slough.
That’s the second snake we found, the first one, larger, embedded like a fossil in the grit of the little road leading to the cabin.
I returned from Boston to find the magnolia blossoms resurrected and all the grass greened up.
Having left behind bookishness for a bit, with bookseller dinners and conferences behind me and a draft of Savage Girl put to bed, I’m ready to… read! But what to read? My Alice B. Toklas, awaiting me. Perhaps some more Stein. Also poetry. Gerald Stern? Frank O’Hara?
I need recommendations.
2 responses to “Poetry Makes Nothing Happen”
Hurray! Maybe I can finagle a galley.
The second book in the Wolf Hall trilogy is only a month away…