First Known When Lost

I am fond of perusing poetry anthologies -- the older the better.  As I have mentioned before, individual poems are more important than indi...

Yesterday was one of those expansive April days.  The slate-grey waters of Puget Sound were silver-ribboned and cloud-shadowed.  Across the ...

This is a postscript to my post earlier this month about "Things."  It takes its cue from the final two lines of Jorge Luis Borges...

"But it is a sort of April-weather life that we lead in this world.  A little sunshine is generally the prelude to a storm."  So w...

Spring came in a rush this week.  Overnight (or so it seemed) all of the trees came into leaf at once.  Perhaps this was merely a trick of t...

A watercolor painting of the Suffolk countryside, with Framlingham Castle in the distance, discovered in a Seattle antique store.  A tiny, c...

Long-time (and much-appreciated!) readers of this blog may recall that I have a May poem (Philip Larkin's " The Trees ") and a...

A few posts ago, I offered this bit of wisdom from Joseph Conrad:  "When once the truth is grasped that one's own personality is on...

If one goes in search of a poem about a thrush in Spring, it is not likely that one will turn first to the poetry of Philip Larkin.  Edward ...

It is impossible for us to be objective about ourselves.  How could it be otherwise?  We have been pent up in our cocoon of body, mind, and ...