Give Me Away
This night is changing
me
into what I had been
partially.
Wallace, walk me down
the aisle.
Give me a way
to ache; to-morrow
full of day-
time
breaking.
eliza c. kane
for the record
Nov 17
Nov 04
“ writing grad papers is like getting engaged: choose a text you love early on and hope you don’t want to strangle it down the road.
Nov 02
Rediscovering "Potpourri"
Admiring the foliage of Oxford Street today, I was reminded of a poem I’d written on the back of a liquor bag some falls ago on that same block. Typically, I kept the bag and never workshopped the poem, but tonight I went digging through my archives (aka, a giant trunk of miscellany) and transcribed it.
There are some parts I like — the image of naked branches as fingers shushing summer while also reaching out to each other cathartically (in both the sense of consolation and and the sense of purging). But it seems overloaded, even when read aloud, so I’m not sure what I’ll do with it — anyway V1.0 is below the cut. Shoot me your crits.
Oct 03
“ This message is for Eliza Catherine. I’m having some problems with symbolism in a book I’m reading… Frankly I think it’s a load of crap annnnd I need to talk to you about it. Thanks.
— My dad, who is yet to ever leave me a straightforward voicemail. This was his latest.
Featuring my friend, mentor, and former professor Richard Murphy and his new collection of poetry, Voyeur.
Sep 30
“ O Bacchus, make them drunk, drive them mad, this multitude of vagabonds, hungry for eloquence, hungry for poetry, starving for symbols, perishing for want of electricity to vitalize this too much pasture; &, in the long delay, indemnifying themselves with the false wine of alcohol, of politics, or of money. Pour for them, o Bacchus, the wine of wine. Give them, at last, Poetry.
— from the journals of R. W. Emerson
Sep 23
This afternoon was dedicated to reading Yeats and baking sesame-raisin soda bread. If my fish-catching, sheep-chasing, coal-digging, double-digit-child-bearing Irish ancestors could see how I pass my time they’d probably slap my spoiled ass up the head.
Sep 20
“ Ní bhfaighidh mé choíche bás
Cé go gcuirfear mé fé bhrat bán don chill
Ní chuirfear ann ach mo chorpán
Beidh mo ghuth fé bhláth ó aois go h-aosis.
Cé go gcuirfear mé fé bhrat bán don chill
Ní chuirfear ann ach mo chorpán
Beidh mo ghuth fé bhláth ó aois go h-aosis.
—
I shall have eternal life
Though a white shroud my body cages
Only my corpse lies in the grave
But my voice shall flower throughout the ages.
—“M’anam beidh i leabhar (My Spirit in a Book Shall Live)” by Mícheál Ó Gaoithín
Aug 05
You know you're white when...
you work in the Caribbean with 20 other gringos and yet the Rastas dub you “Blanquita.”
Jul 18
“ To make music in the morning
From animal skin and strings;
To stick tacks into the map of
What we’re inheriting.
From animal skin and strings;
To stick tacks into the map of
What we’re inheriting.
— some lyrics for a song called “the white sail.” my friend mollie and i are collaborating on melody.
