James McAuley had a gift for overcoming first impressions. Manning Clark, the future doyen of Australian historians, met the twenty-five-year-old poet in the crowd at an Aussie Rules game. McAuley was blind drunk, full of wild slogans about art and politics, and looked wrecked even by the usual . . . . Continue Reading »
Walking on water, i.e., in the streets of Venice,I read its history in churches—Gothic,Baroque and Neoclassical, one marbleglory after another, sometimes hearing the whisper of dead Catullusreminding me that the sun that sets tonightwill rise again, but when my light has setthere will be no . . . . Continue Reading »
Insulting social conventionHas been your stock in trade,But I doubt you’ll be forgivenThe scandal you’ve now made. Iconoclasm’s brought you fameBut now you’ve gone too far.Your days may well be numberedAs a multi-media star. You’ve sailed close to the wind before,You’ve cut it mighty . . . . Continue Reading »
“I only desire to find out knowledge . . . which may instruct me how to die well and how to live well.”—Michel de Montaigne “Life Skills”—the mindless high-school class that knocksInto our callow heads the way to doThe forms we face whenever something newRequires our consent: a . . . . Continue Reading »
At Louis Armstrong Airport, Jason takesMy black-clad arm as we approach the gatesWhere no Saint Peter stands as guard, and slakesMy cheerlessness. The Czech Republic waits.My son—the one departing—jokes, and makesMe laugh through tears. “You’ve raised a missionary,”My husband says, . . . . Continue Reading »
You’d think that after New Year’s boozy kisses,Back-slapping, and effusions in confetti,The last hors-d’oeuvres and passes at the Mrs.Beneath the hanging cardboard amoretti, Time would relax, agree to stay a while,Hang up his sandals, lay aside his shift,And sleep it off until the . . . . Continue Reading »
Beyond the window, morning sparrows made Their song as if the whole world’s goodness paid Its plenty out for them and them alone. The old saint heard their joy and squelched a moan As his legs, stiff and heavy still with sleep, Arranged themselves beneath his cassocked heap Of belly. Where had he . . . . Continue Reading »
If all the oughts and nots given by GodAre excommunicated from debate,Except in terms of conscience which she lauds,I’d like to blame our Holy Mother State. I’d blame this Novus ordo secularOn savants who with smiling faces say:“Neanderthals!” or “to the sepulcher!”They satirize or . . . . Continue Reading »
Never a housewife weary and embattledLooked up with more heartfelt dismay to hearHer lord’s rebuke. Her eyes are startled blear,And every straining nerve of her is rattled:She’d fought and butchered cows and bucking goats,And hammered out the gristle-knotted flesh(She looked for burns and . . . . Continue Reading »
(As in the movies, when the traffic swerves and skids to miss the hero in its way . . .) He toddled through the cars as if to play a game of chicken with his mother’s nerves. She wept to see him standing there, across the other side, her perfect smiling boy. All rosy-cheeked with death-defying . . . . Continue Reading »
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