The Pot Watcher

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Sheep in the Winter Night

Inside the barn the sheep were standing, pushed close to one
another. Some were dozing, some had eyes wide open listening
in the dark. Some had no doubt heard of wolves. They looked
weary with all the burdens they had to carry, like being thought
of as stupid and cowardly, disliked by cowboys for the way they
eat grass about an inch into the dirt, the silly look they have
just after shearing, of being one of the symbols of the Christian
religion. In the darkness of the barn their woolly backs were
full of light gathered on summer pastures. Above them their
white breath was suspended, while far off in the pine woods,
night was deep in silence. The owl and rabbit were wondering,
along with the trees, if the air would soon fill with snowflakes,
but the power that moves through the world and makes our
hair stand on end was keeping the answer to itself.

By Tom Hennen

Filed under writers almanac sheep poetry tom hennen

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They Call This

A young mother on a motor scooter stopped at a traffic light, her little son perched on the ledge between her legs; she in a gleaming helmet, he in a replica of it, smaller, but the same color and just as shiny. His visor is swung shut, hers is open.
As I pull up beside them on my bike, the mother
is leaning over to embrace the child, whispering something in his ear, and I’m shaken, truly shaken, by the wish, the need, to have those slim strong arms contain me in their sanctuary of affection.
Though they call this regression, though that
implies a going back to some other state and this has never left me, this fundamental pang of being too soon torn from a bliss that promises more bliss, no matter that the scooter’s fenders are dented, nor that as it idles it pops, clears its throat, growls.

by C. K. Williams

Filed under C.K. Williams They Call This Poetry

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Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.
Rilke

Filed under rainer maria rilke

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FEELING: The one where you’ve met a new friend or you’re getting to know an old one better and the current running between you is so powerful that talking seems painfully inefficient, you’re always heading to the subway having turned over only a few paltry pebbles from the mountain of conversations you want to have, and you’re trying to stay cool and remember that you have years to chip through that cliff but only if you don’t scare them off right now by being too intense but you feel like running a USB cable from your head into theirs or better yet just clawing your skull open and holding out your brain like a ripe fruit: “Here, take this, know me.”

HOW TO EAT IT: Brie, crackers, tiny pickles, cocktail weenies, party shrimp.

•••
FEELING: The one where you’re downtown on one of the first warm and long days of spring, and the sun is setting at an hour when your winter-atrophied brain thinks it ought to be dark, and great swaths of lavish light are lying across the trees and benches and buildings like brocade, and all of the girls are just so startlingly pretty, and you feel that your chest is a silver bowl that’s been struck and is ringing, high and bright and painful because what right do you have to live among so much beauty?

HOW TO EAT IT: The most ornate thing you can buy from an ice cream truck.

•••
FEELING: The one where someone finally breaks the news you’ve been refusing to admit you already knew, and the bones in your arms turn to aspic and your ribcage is aspic juddering around your heart.

HOW TO EAT IT: At first, it will be too big to eat. When you can eat, seek cake.

A Guide to Eating Very Particular Feelings, by Jess Zimmerman on The Hairpin

Filed under hairpin eatingfeelings

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You think this is just another day in your life. it’s not just another day. it’s the one day that is given to you. today. it’s given to you, it’s a gift. it’s the only gift that you have right now. and the only appropriate response, is gratefulness. if you do nothing else but to cultivate that response, to the great gift that this unique day is, if you learn to respond as if it were the first day in your life and the very last day…then you will have spent this day very well.
This little film.

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Love, Here’s the Deal

What I first wanted to say was more fire.
Was that we needed fire to turn all the wicked tongues
and hands and eyes to ash. Fire
to make of the knife-sharp and useless theories
the smoke, the subtle poison
that they are. Wanted to say it’s a burning we need,
and from the ash some new thing.
But that sounds like a bullshit poem in the making.
Besides—to be true—fire does not
a bloody land make bloom. Does not of the thousand
razor-wired walls, or the documents,
or the cities and cities and cities of dead turning
beneath our feet make a kind of music.
Who’s the genius that came up with that one?
Here’s what I think I’m trying to say:

Somewhere there’s a road.
Some of us are going to find it.
You can come if you want.

Ross Gay

Filed under Ross Gay poetry

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The other night we passed an old school drug store in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn… or what we thought was a drug store until we peeked inside and noticed a warm and lively crowd of people enjoying things that looked a lot more delicious than drugs. So tonight, we’re trying it out. 
"Never mind those fancy Manhattan Italians… Over the bridge in Brooklyn, there’s something amazing going on… a quiet culinary revolution is taking place… Take Locanda Vini & Olii, for instance… turned a 103-year-old Clinton Hill drugstore into a brand-new restaurant… rigorously authentic and unlike almost anything on the menu in Italian restaurants across the city." - The James Beard Foundation, Jan. 2002 
TBD

The other night we passed an old school drug store in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn… or what we thought was a drug store until we peeked inside and noticed a warm and lively crowd of people enjoying things that looked a lot more delicious than drugs. So tonight, we’re trying it out. 

"Never mind those fancy Manhattan Italians… Over the bridge in Brooklyn, there’s something amazing going on… a quiet culinary revolution is taking place… Take Locanda Vini & Olii, for instance… turned a 103-year-old Clinton Hill drugstore into a brand-new restaurant… rigorously authentic and unlike almost anything on the menu in Italian restaurants across the city." - The James Beard Foundation, Jan. 2002 

TBD

Filed under brooklyn clinton hill dinner locanda vini e olii