December 2011
47 posts
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November 2011
40 posts
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“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert...
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy...
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"Late Self-Portrait by Rembrandt" by Jane...
The dog, dead for years, keeps coming back in the dream. We look at each other there with the old joy. It was always her gift to bring me into the present— Which sleeps, changes, awakens, dresses, leaves. Happiness and unhappiness differ as a bucket hammered from gold differs from one of pressed tin, this painting proposes. Each carries the same water, it says.
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Why I’m Tired of People Ragging on Twilight →
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"Character and Life" by Jane Hirshfield (from...
The young novelist held underwater
the head of the character in his book he loved best.
In the book, and as he wrote,
he counted until he was sure it was finished.
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“Be a More Confident Writer: 5 Choices That Might... →
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Sharing Poetry: Rita Dove, "Hades' Pitch" →
sharingpoetry:
If I could just touch your ankle, he whispers, there on the inside, above the bone—leans closer, breath of lime and pepper—I know I could make love to you. She considers this, secretly thrilled, though she wasn’t quite sure what he meant. He was good with words, words that went straight to…
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"The Day is done" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
Come,...