There’s always something remaining, that’s the trouble— this book for instance, with its woods and one dark house. Someone’s always talking and he’s not from this world. Breathe at the window, draw with a finger words of no consequence, give it a go— autumn rain wind childhood, don’t forget eyes behind the leaves…
I often speak of flowers I can’t see or talk of wild geese as they fly south— the rhetoric of sightlessness fills with nouns the way some people’s houses have mirrors in the attic, and night is starry and clear.
Once when I was in a very dark time, having lost my job and losing my eyesight, I received a cruel letter from Mia Berner, a Swedish writer, who’d been married to the late Finnish poet Pentti Saarikoski. I’d sent her some of my Saarikoski translations. Her letter was exceedingly vicious. She said I was [...]
I ventured one evening onto a school playground and spun on the sandlot carousel. Corky was pleased with the game. We went around in slow, breezy loops. Headlights appeared and two policemen approached. They saw a blind man and his dog spinning and smiling. “What are you doing, sir?” asked one of the cops. “We’re [...]
Some mornings rain and apple trees. Some mornings wisdom and chance. And here I am, says the horse. And the jaunty dog says here we are. ** Dreamt last night I was in a winter house. My only friend was a very old rat. I played a song for him on a found [...]