more ghostly goodness!
Nic Sebastian has added a video of "Playing Duets with Heisenberg's Ghost" to The Poetry Storehouse.
ghosts and harvest
Nic Sebastian has created a recording of Playing Duets with Heisenberg's Ghost and uploaded it to The Poetry Storehouse. Squee!
The first buds on the Christmas cactus in our library room have appeared. The plant is from one of my mother's plants, which I split into three smaller plants this year. I haven't had much luck with small cuttings/breakings (I did get some to root this summer, but then rain or critters got the better of them), but the three big chunks from the mama plant (so to speak) seem to be doing fine.
The first fall frost of the year will hit us any day now, so Saturday's chores included harvesting the last of the Kentucky Colonel mint:
The first buds on the Christmas cactus in our library room have appeared. The plant is from one of my mother's plants, which I split into three smaller plants this year. I haven't had much luck with small cuttings/breakings (I did get some to root this summer, but then rain or critters got the better of them), but the three big chunks from the mama plant (so to speak) seem to be doing fine.
The first fall frost of the year will hit us any day now, so Saturday's chores included harvesting the last of the Kentucky Colonel mint:
storehouse and hollyhocks
An invitation to remix: five poems at The Poetry Storehouse (which I heard about from Rachel Barenblat). Come and play!
It's looking like the first fall frost may hit us this Sunday, so I will be devoting part of my Saturday to tucking kraft paper, dog hair (to continue deterring bunnies), and mulch around the hollyhocks. The yard provided an excellent therapy break this afternoon: things had gotten messy around the Kentucky Colonel mint. Detangling it perfumed my hands, and clearing away the weeds and stray leaves and weeds soothed my mind.
And now I'm going to make shrimp korma, and then dive back into work.
It's looking like the first fall frost may hit us this Sunday, so I will be devoting part of my Saturday to tucking kraft paper, dog hair (to continue deterring bunnies), and mulch around the hollyhocks. The yard provided an excellent therapy break this afternoon: things had gotten messy around the Kentucky Colonel mint. Detangling it perfumed my hands, and clearing away the weeds and stray leaves and weeds soothed my mind.
And now I'm going to make shrimp korma, and then dive back into work.
Entry tags:
studies, 1992 and 2013
While shuffling some other papers into new boxes, I came across a folder from my time at Michigan. In addition to the usual assortment of notes and photocopies, it also yielded five diphenhydramine/hydrochloride capsules, a half-painted nail, and a 22-page draft of "Ugly Kings and Happy Endings: Orfeo, Pericles and Political Anxiety in English Romance" (my paper for English 731) with a bit of advice from my housemate Eric in the upper right-hand corner: "write the best paper you can in the time you have."
7x20 featured two micro-pieces of mine this week:
Shakespeare festival
Athens
7x20 featured two micro-pieces of mine this week:
fumbling and fluttering along
This morning, the funny little yellow fungi had faded into tiny orange shreds. The sky was showing signs of incoming rain, but I looked at the weather forecast (20% chance of precipitation) and decided to err on the side of over-saturation and watered the beds and the planters (the arugula and the radishes have already germinated!).
Naturally, 3/4 through my hospital shift, the only thing the people in the halls were talking about was the rain pelting down -- in part because it wasn't coming down, but falling sideways. In both directions. After my shift, I treated myself to a cup of hot chocolate from the machine in the lounge and peeked through a magazine that was so stupid I could feel my brain cells shriveling like the folds of fungi. (I like mind candy as much as the next bubblehead, but you know how there's good candy, okay candy, and corn-syrup-mixed-with-sock-lint candy? Yeah.)
The rain's eased up. The shoots of fungi have revived, upright again and back to bright yellow. Time to make lunch and find my groove...
In news news, there are three new poems to see...
Clinging (at Escape Into Life)
Even an Empty Life Can Hold Water (at Inkscrawl)
Making Rice Dance (also at Inkscrawl)
Naturally, 3/4 through my hospital shift, the only thing the people in the halls were talking about was the rain pelting down -- in part because it wasn't coming down, but falling sideways. In both directions. After my shift, I treated myself to a cup of hot chocolate from the machine in the lounge and peeked through a magazine that was so stupid I could feel my brain cells shriveling like the folds of fungi. (I like mind candy as much as the next bubblehead, but you know how there's good candy, okay candy, and corn-syrup-mixed-with-sock-lint candy? Yeah.)
The rain's eased up. The shoots of fungi have revived, upright again and back to bright yellow. Time to make lunch and find my groove...
In news news, there are three new poems to see...
Clinging (at Escape Into Life)
Even an Empty Life Can Hold Water (at Inkscrawl)
Making Rice Dance (also at Inkscrawl)
Entry tags:
"You go back and pick up the pieces"
 |
| From Europe 2009 - set 3 - Prague |
Photographer in Prague, 2009
Maybe people have to go in and out of shadows
until they learn that floating, that immensity
waiting to receive whatever arrives with trust.- William Stafford, Afterwards
Entry tags:
In memoriam: Stephen M. Wilson (1970-2013)
Having been decidedly out of the loop, I learned about Stephen M. Wilson's death on May 22 only yesterday, via Linda D. Addison's preface to the 2013 Dwarf Stars compilation. My first exchange with Stephen was back in 2007, his first year of co-editing the anthology.
He was amused to hear that my microcosms honoraria were enough to cover a couple of beers. He published ten pieces by me, including this one:
He was amused to hear that my microcosms honoraria were enough to cover a couple of beers. He published ten pieces by me, including this one:
She’s building a periodic table of death, / the better to unearth / uncounted ways of letting go.// Peg Duthie
May 10, 2010
Entry tags:
light maintenance
[a first draft -- sparked by Luisa A. Igloria's photo In the Turkish Coffeeshop]
On the wall of a friend's garage,
antique Post-its, laminated for posterity
by layers of packing tape,
detail how to keep the door happy,
in a language we eventually
deciphered as Turkish.
We first told the translator
Dikkat yilda 2 kaz,
which yielded care
of two geese per year,
which sounded (sadly)
a touch too fairy-tale,
so then we tried Dikkat
yilda 2 kez yapilacak,
which generated attention
to be paid twice a year.
I'm kidding about the "sadly" -- my friend
would find the tending of geraniums onerous,
never mind the flappings of fowl. As would I,
though I've tickled myself these past few days
thinking, what if our mysterious Turkish mentor
had indeed meant "geese"? Something as simple
as "keep the door shut
so the birds stay warm"
or perhaps as wild
as brushing the three finest belly feathers
across the fringe of a welcome mat
at least twice a year,
the better to pay heed
to what the doors and windows
let in and keep out --
visitors, vermin, gusts of air,
slivers and slabs and slashes of light --
everywhere I go, within these days of sorrow,
I cannot help but catch my breath
at how things fall upon and toward each other:
At sunlight striking a page or paving stone.
At how the text tattooed on Jelena's back
literally met the life-line on my palm
when I spotted her through a bend.
At how the leaves
on the café chandelier
are casting a wind-knotted veil
across the face of a queen
Carla's drawing for a Tarot deck.
I cannot tell you what the cards will say.
I cannot promise that the door will last
even if we lavish upon it the best
in grease or geese that money can buy.
Even when we care for things with all our heart
sometimes they cannot help but fall apart and fall away.
But though the winds and wolves blow down a hundred houses,
what is there to do next but to keep paying attention?
-- pld, 7/16/13
On the wall of a friend's garage,
antique Post-its, laminated for posterity
by layers of packing tape,
detail how to keep the door happy,
in a language we eventually
deciphered as Turkish.
We first told the translator
Dikkat yilda 2 kaz,
which yielded care
of two geese per year,
which sounded (sadly)
a touch too fairy-tale,
so then we tried Dikkat
yilda 2 kez yapilacak,
which generated attention
to be paid twice a year.
I'm kidding about the "sadly" -- my friend
would find the tending of geraniums onerous,
never mind the flappings of fowl. As would I,
though I've tickled myself these past few days
thinking, what if our mysterious Turkish mentor
had indeed meant "geese"? Something as simple
as "keep the door shut
so the birds stay warm"
or perhaps as wild
as brushing the three finest belly feathers
across the fringe of a welcome mat
at least twice a year,
the better to pay heed
to what the doors and windows
let in and keep out --
visitors, vermin, gusts of air,
slivers and slabs and slashes of light --
everywhere I go, within these days of sorrow,
I cannot help but catch my breath
at how things fall upon and toward each other:
At sunlight striking a page or paving stone.
At how the text tattooed on Jelena's back
literally met the life-line on my palm
when I spotted her through a bend.
At how the leaves
on the café chandelier
are casting a wind-knotted veil
across the face of a queen
Carla's drawing for a Tarot deck.
I cannot tell you what the cards will say.
I cannot promise that the door will last
even if we lavish upon it the best
in grease or geese that money can buy.
Even when we care for things with all our heart
sometimes they cannot help but fall apart and fall away.
But though the winds and wolves blow down a hundred houses,
what is there to do next but to keep paying attention?
-- pld, 7/16/13
set me as a seal upon thine arm, as a seal upon thine heart
As I wait for "Voodoo Blue" to set, a few notes:
Signal boosting, because she asked: JJ Hunter's How Are You in Haiku
I have resumed my (somewhat-out-sequence) listening to various episodes of the Moby Dick Big Read, thanks to 7.5 hours on the road today. Melville is both ridiculous and hilarious. I am so glad that I was not his copyeditor.
My friend Donna has a fine riff about the book over at Radish Reviews. In the meantime, here's one of the passages that cheered me along I-81 today:
Also? Praise be for the recording app on my phone. Listening to Moby Dick sparked some poem ideas (both original and found), as did just having to concentrate on the road (i.e., not having the luxury of scribbling out the simmerings in my head) for 441-odd miles.
Also? I haven't managed to memorize Modah ani yet, but my thoughts drifted to it a lot during the drive. Sorrow is a sharpener, and so is simply being away from my usual groove. The clouds looked unnaturally picturesque -- there was a weirdly clean upper border to them, as if someone had drawn an exacto blade through part of the sky. There were yellow wildflowers (for whatever values of "wild" you want to ascribe to anything along the highway) near the Tennessee-Virginia border. My thoughts skittered from my parents' ashes to shape-note singing to wondering if I'll ever get to experience an Enfoirés concert in person to my personal boycott of ATP-only tennis tournaments, to sketches of poems I want to finish drafting by September. This wild and precious life. So much to ask about where things are going, including the beloved creatures that have ceased to be on this plane.
Signal boosting, because she asked: JJ Hunter's How Are You in Haiku
I have resumed my (somewhat-out-sequence) listening to various episodes of the Moby Dick Big Read, thanks to 7.5 hours on the road today. Melville is both ridiculous and hilarious. I am so glad that I was not his copyeditor.
My friend Donna has a fine riff about the book over at Radish Reviews. In the meantime, here's one of the passages that cheered me along I-81 today:
The skeleton dimensions [of a sperm whale] I shall now proceed to set down are copied verbatim from my right arm, where I had them tattooed; as in my wild wanderings at that period, there was no other secure way of preserving such valuable statistics. But as I was crowded for space, and wished the other parts of my body to remain a blank page for a poem I was then composing--at least, what untattooed parts might remain--I did not trouble myself with the odd inches; nor, indeed, should inches at all enter into a congenial admeasurement of the whale.
Also? Praise be for the recording app on my phone. Listening to Moby Dick sparked some poem ideas (both original and found), as did just having to concentrate on the road (i.e., not having the luxury of scribbling out the simmerings in my head) for 441-odd miles.
Also? I haven't managed to memorize Modah ani yet, but my thoughts drifted to it a lot during the drive. Sorrow is a sharpener, and so is simply being away from my usual groove. The clouds looked unnaturally picturesque -- there was a weirdly clean upper border to them, as if someone had drawn an exacto blade through part of the sky. There were yellow wildflowers (for whatever values of "wild" you want to ascribe to anything along the highway) near the Tennessee-Virginia border. My thoughts skittered from my parents' ashes to shape-note singing to wondering if I'll ever get to experience an Enfoirés concert in person to my personal boycott of ATP-only tennis tournaments, to sketches of poems I want to finish drafting by September. This wild and precious life. So much to ask about where things are going, including the beloved creatures that have ceased to be on this plane.
bikram; duck; Lonely Eagles
Bikram update: to my surprise, I felt like attempting a toe stand today. To my even greater surprise, I managed the first handful of steps without feeling I'd gone too far, at least on my left side. (My attempt on the right side veered out of form before I raised my heel. This practice, it will keep a gal humble...)
I'm still sorting out where my head should be (so to speak) in Rabbit and Triangle. I suspect part of the problem is that I'm long-waisted, but without much in the way of core strength, so right now my arms feel both too short (in Rabbit) and too long (in Triangle) as they try to compensate for my middle not quite managing what I'm asking of it. Yet. By my count, today was class #23, so by any measure, I'm still just getting started (and I'm certain I'll still feel that way when I get to class #230. My pastimes have a way of doing that -- she says, glaring at today's efforts at writing.)
Duck: Buttercup! (aka 3-D printing in the news for something other than guns)
Lonely Eagles: Jennifer Michael Hecht featured Marilyn Nelson's poem about the 332d Fighter Group. Some poems, when I read them, I wind up bolt upright by the end and exclaiming, "Holy shit." This is one of those poems.
I'm still sorting out where my head should be (so to speak) in Rabbit and Triangle. I suspect part of the problem is that I'm long-waisted, but without much in the way of core strength, so right now my arms feel both too short (in Rabbit) and too long (in Triangle) as they try to compensate for my middle not quite managing what I'm asking of it. Yet. By my count, today was class #23, so by any measure, I'm still just getting started (and I'm certain I'll still feel that way when I get to class #230. My pastimes have a way of doing that -- she says, glaring at today's efforts at writing.)
Duck: Buttercup! (aka 3-D printing in the news for something other than guns)
Lonely Eagles: Jennifer Michael Hecht featured Marilyn Nelson's poem about the 332d Fighter Group. Some poems, when I read them, I wind up bolt upright by the end and exclaiming, "Holy shit." This is one of those poems.
Entry tags:
Memorial Day
Andrew Johnson National Cemetery, August 2012
holiday
space to spare time
for stories
from the shadows
a sprawl of tulips...
New online: Remnant, at Escape Into Life (along with Luisa A. Igloria's "Gardenia," J. Bradley's "#safetytipsfordating - Flowers," and other pieces, illustrated with spectacular photos by Katinka Matson)
New in print: two haiga and a haiku in Lifting the Sky: Southwestern Haiga and Haiku, published by Dos Gatos Press (which is currently running a sale -- their catalog includes compilations of writing exercises and a cancer memoir.
Speaking of cancer: Rhonda Parrish is calling for SF/F fiction and poetry about cancer, for an anthology where at least 25% of the royalties will be donated to the American Cancer Society. the deadline is June 30.
Speaking of calls for submissions: Eye to the Telescope's next theme is bodies. Submissions due June 15.
The green hair continues to liven up my life -- the BYM was inordinately amused at the compliments I received a couple of nights ago from the young girls at Sweet CeCe's. The green bean plants are now between two and six inches tall, which I find oddly thrilling (it's only been a week since most of them poked through the soil).
Time to hit the easel (not literally, though some days I feel like it). Thinking loving thoughts toward y'all, even when I don't manage to send a direct note or comment.
New in print: two haiga and a haiku in Lifting the Sky: Southwestern Haiga and Haiku, published by Dos Gatos Press (which is currently running a sale -- their catalog includes compilations of writing exercises and a cancer memoir.
Speaking of cancer: Rhonda Parrish is calling for SF/F fiction and poetry about cancer, for an anthology where at least 25% of the royalties will be donated to the American Cancer Society. the deadline is June 30.
Speaking of calls for submissions: Eye to the Telescope's next theme is bodies. Submissions due June 15.
The green hair continues to liven up my life -- the BYM was inordinately amused at the compliments I received a couple of nights ago from the young girls at Sweet CeCe's. The green bean plants are now between two and six inches tall, which I find oddly thrilling (it's only been a week since most of them poked through the soil).
Time to hit the easel (not literally, though some days I feel like it). Thinking loving thoughts toward y'all, even when I don't manage to send a direct note or comment.
Entry tags:
"tearing curtains in my rib cage"
The subject line's from Kate Barnes's "Epona" (a patron deity of horses). The poem opens with this:
If only. I woke up this morning from a dream where I spent most of an afternoon indexing a manuscript -- in a bleak little pen somewhere on the Keeneland grounds, with my dying mother in a corner and surrounded by tennis matches and other families holding field day festivities.
It doesn't take a psychology degree to figure out where the various elements came from. But hey, subconscious, how about a white mare or washing machine next time? Or maybe colorful cargo-bike panniers? (I was reading a sample chapter of Luna Jaffe's Wild Money just before bedtime.)
I was going to moan about yesterday being mishap-laden (walking into a tree; having to throw out a panful of roasted veg) but I see that I did that a year ago, almost to the day. Note to future self: mark this week as a danger zone on the calendar.
Being stubborn as well as klutzy, I got two submissions out. And I was pleasantly surprised to see one of my poems newly published and shortlisted over at unFold. And, I'm in fine company -- the list so far also includes Dorothee Lang (who published Story Book-Ends two Aprils ago) and Nathalie Boisard-Beudin (whose photo+tunes journal is heaps of fun...)
Also from two years ago: I had some leftover red wine. I had a party to attend. So:
Waking up this morning, I found myself
still in a dream of washing a white mare
in the washing machine.
If only. I woke up this morning from a dream where I spent most of an afternoon indexing a manuscript -- in a bleak little pen somewhere on the Keeneland grounds, with my dying mother in a corner and surrounded by tennis matches and other families holding field day festivities.
It doesn't take a psychology degree to figure out where the various elements came from. But hey, subconscious, how about a white mare or washing machine next time? Or maybe colorful cargo-bike panniers? (I was reading a sample chapter of Luna Jaffe's Wild Money just before bedtime.)
I was going to moan about yesterday being mishap-laden (walking into a tree; having to throw out a panful of roasted veg) but I see that I did that a year ago, almost to the day. Note to future self: mark this week as a danger zone on the calendar.
Being stubborn as well as klutzy, I got two submissions out. And I was pleasantly surprised to see one of my poems newly published and shortlisted over at unFold. And, I'm in fine company -- the list so far also includes Dorothee Lang (who published Story Book-Ends two Aprils ago) and Nathalie Boisard-Beudin (whose photo+tunes journal is heaps of fun...)
Also from two years ago: I had some leftover red wine. I had a party to attend. So:
Entry tags:
"Hope is the hardest love we carry"
Today's subject line is from Jane Hirshfield's Hope and Love. It is one of the pieces I am currently rehearsing for this Sunday's services. The other one is a lively setting of Emily Dickinson's "Hope Is the Thing with Feathers":
I've also been looking at various hymns set to "Charleston" (albeit wayyy slower than the midi at Hymnary). We sang the version that begins "There's a wideness in your mercy" (words by Frederick William Faber) at church not too long ago:
There's a wideness in your mercy like the wideness of the sea;
there's a kindness in your justice which is more than liberty.
But we make your love too narrow by false limits of our own,
and we magnify your strictness with a zeal you will not own.
For the love of God is broader than the measures of our minds
and the heart of the Eternal is most wonderfully kind.
I've also been looking at various hymns set to "Charleston" (albeit wayyy slower than the midi at Hymnary). We sang the version that begins "There's a wideness in your mercy" (words by Frederick William Faber) at church not too long ago:
There's a wideness in your mercy like the wideness of the sea;
there's a kindness in your justice which is more than liberty.
But we make your love too narrow by false limits of our own,
and we magnify your strictness with a zeal you will not own.
For the love of God is broader than the measures of our minds
and the heart of the Eternal is most wonderfully kind.
Entry tags:
thinking of trees
...what with yesterday-today being Tu B'Shevat...
Mepkin Abbey (South Carolina), December 2012
A few knots away
from the graves of soldiers and gadflies,
trees entwine
with the remnants of promises.
An apple tree in my mother's yard (Kentucky), April 2008
Briyah
On the New Year of Trees,
I squeeze the last
of the backyard grapefruit
my sister picked for me.
The lemons from her yard
are steeping in a jar,
the vodka from a friend
who died six years ago.
The pantry holds olives
for when I miss Greece,
which has been at once
for ever and never --
its unburied garbage
and unappeasable ghosts,
its sunlit branches
and well-tended ruins.
Now and then,
I dream of my mother
in a house that is neither
hers nor mine
and yet we know
our way around it,
the way I know
how this pie will taste
even though I have
not yet cut into it.
- pld
Mepkin Abbey (South Carolina), December 2012
A few knots away
from the graves of soldiers and gadflies,
trees entwine
with the remnants of promises.
 |
| From things that make me happy |
An apple tree in my mother's yard (Kentucky), April 2008
Briyah
On the New Year of Trees,
I squeeze the last
of the backyard grapefruit
my sister picked for me.
The lemons from her yard
are steeping in a jar,
the vodka from a friend
who died six years ago.
The pantry holds olives
for when I miss Greece,
which has been at once
for ever and never --
its unburied garbage
and unappeasable ghosts,
its sunlit branches
and well-tended ruins.
Now and then,
I dream of my mother
in a house that is neither
hers nor mine
and yet we know
our way around it,
the way I know
how this pie will taste
even though I have
not yet cut into it.
- pld
pine nut cookies
Autobiography
Rain spits on Nashville
as I blur butter into sugar.
So much sweetness
starts out from grease and grit.
- pld
glimpses of a garden; poetry at Poetree
At Cheekwood:
At![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
poetree, I posted on some poems to/about dead people on Monday, and will be posting on May Sarton's "All Souls" poems this Saturday. Today, there is a haiku trick-or-treat thread open to all. Come play!
At
poetree, I posted on some poems to/about dead people on Monday, and will be posting on May Sarton's "All Souls" poems this Saturday. Today, there is a haiku trick-or-treat thread open to all. Come play!
Entry tags:
Dun-dun dunnnnnnn...
Poetree Challenge #25: write a poem about an anniversary
Dun-dun dunnnnnnn...
E's reciting to F about kings
and things that never run from us away.
I want to beg her to stop. I want her to save
the words for another year or three:
it's still too soon after breaking up with G,
not enough time since F's father died,
and, also, H still inhabits
swaths of E's internal datebook,
stretches of secretly blue and gray
"years since" squares -- occasions too minor,
ancient, or awkward to share aloud
and yet too large to tame into the silence
of albums, lockets, or flowerpots. I want
to warn E about how long she'll live --
her full allotted span, sharp to the end --
so doesn't she want this day to remain
deliciously blank throughout the years to come,
unclouded by the ghost of these words
she's speaking right now? They ring
with all her heart, yes, and F in kind
will cherish this day, run with it toward
the time to choose a wedding day
but that will be too soon as well.
Wait, my darlings, I want to demand,
the people you're eager to prove so wrong
will rest content in their wrongness long
after the gifts and glorious rhymes
have faded into a litany of losses --
anniversaries both of things returned
to their senders, and things that failed
to come back from the alluring green
of awaysides and of foreign grass. I'd like
to hiss, For God's sake hold your tongue
and let your love be free of reins
until you've truly learned the shape of your mouths--
but were they to hear or heed me, they
would no longer be the E or F
whose threads I've spun thus far.
And so I let E continue to voice
Donne's fine words of the everlasting
and for a moment -- just too long enough --
F wants to hold onto this day forever.
- pld, 10/15-16/2012
Dun-dun dunnnnnnn...
E's reciting to F about kings
and things that never run from us away.
I want to beg her to stop. I want her to save
the words for another year or three:
it's still too soon after breaking up with G,
not enough time since F's father died,
and, also, H still inhabits
swaths of E's internal datebook,
stretches of secretly blue and gray
"years since" squares -- occasions too minor,
ancient, or awkward to share aloud
and yet too large to tame into the silence
of albums, lockets, or flowerpots. I want
to warn E about how long she'll live --
her full allotted span, sharp to the end --
so doesn't she want this day to remain
deliciously blank throughout the years to come,
unclouded by the ghost of these words
she's speaking right now? They ring
with all her heart, yes, and F in kind
will cherish this day, run with it toward
the time to choose a wedding day
but that will be too soon as well.
Wait, my darlings, I want to demand,
the people you're eager to prove so wrong
will rest content in their wrongness long
after the gifts and glorious rhymes
have faded into a litany of losses --
anniversaries both of things returned
to their senders, and things that failed
to come back from the alluring green
of awaysides and of foreign grass. I'd like
to hiss, For God's sake hold your tongue
and let your love be free of reins
until you've truly learned the shape of your mouths--
but were they to hear or heed me, they
would no longer be the E or F
whose threads I've spun thus far.
And so I let E continue to voice
Donne's fine words of the everlasting
and for a moment -- just too long enough --
F wants to hold onto this day forever.
- pld, 10/15-16/2012
happy 127th birthday, Niels Bohr!
Google Doodle in Bohr's honor
Jim Ottaviani's Suspended in Language, one of my favorite comic books.
"A Particular Truth - 1941" - my sonnet about Bohr and Heisenberg (first featured in Contemporary Rhyme; republished in Measured Extravagance)
Jim Ottaviani's Suspended in Language, one of my favorite comic books.
Not often in life has a human being caused me such joy by his mere presence as you did.- Albert Einstein, in a 1920 letter to Bohr
"A Particular Truth - 1941" - my sonnet about Bohr and Heisenberg (first featured in Contemporary Rhyme; republished in Measured Extravagance)