A bunch of Edmunds, Iagos, and Richards, all around me today. I’m thinking about our Ashland class now, and the trip we are about to take to Oregon to go to the festival. This trip is always the favorite part of my year, or at least, it has been for awhile or four years now. I like the way the students travel, and I like the way they respond to the art before their eyes.
This is one of the shows we saw four years ago, and its performance did change the way I read the play, though, and that is awesome.
Tonight we’ve been talking about shadows, and their literary weight. Have I said, lately, that I love my HP?
This bat is always smaller than the shadow, and the hill is always steeper from above. This light is bending under this windshield, and the art comes always and easy from the frightened, the mothers, and the rock-bottomers.
The small thing in the shadows are the regretted words, the are Plato on the walls, and shadows on the canyon walls, of the effigies we imagine, up there on the canyon. Here it is now on the fifth of August, on the dreddish dirt,
on the sand, river bottoms with snake grass, with smellly river evenings, now, but now here in this light we all look to the ferry of old vehicles, now, but now, don’t they all envy us up on the huckleberry mountain, where the fattest berries hide underneath and the dragonfly wings
cast big against the stone.
Goodnight, Tuesday poemfriends.