It’s a practice
I’m pretty average at it
But compared to what
Or to whom?
Take Chomsky, for instance:
In the 1990s
He said that he spent
20-25 hours a week
This was in addition
To carrying on his linguistics work
And to doing all his political activities Read the rest of this entry »
John Gabriel wrote last week that he plans to meet with the archbishop to gain clarity. As I pointed out in my email to faculty on January 11, there is nothing ambiguous about the position of the archdiocese. They laid it out last spring in a document entitled Hope and Holiness. You would do well to read it.
I sum up the document in one word. Abuse. Why? The powerful (or so they would fashion themselves) tell the disesteemed how they will experience reality, how they will name themselves, and how they will be lovingly cared for in their disorderedness.
Read the rest of this entry »
Twice I read Last Night I Dreamed of Peace: The Diary of Dang Thuy Tram
Because of your enthusiastic recommendation
I was captivated
I was crestfallen
Thuy’s diary revealed her commitment
Comparable to that of Lan
The ardent Buddhist social worker whom I had read before
And assigned in my classes
But Thuy was overtly political
An unabashed Communist
Lan was committed to the Noble Eightfold Path
Which included Right Speech Read the rest of this entry »
Dr. Sheth: We need to plan which weekend you can come to DC …
I want to book ur ticket to come here
We really want to see you
I: Any time after third week of May
Dr. Sheth: OK
I: How long can I come for?
Dr. Sheth: Forever
“To say ‘silence’
in Spanish, you
have to say, ‘yes’
it. Just as it
Claire was recently on a five-day Silent Retreat.
Over poetry, you didn’t gush. You read it. You read it with the tongue. You lived it. You felt how it moved you, changed you. How it contributed to giving your own life a from, a color, a melody. You didn’t talk about it and you certainly didn’t make it into the cannon fodder of an academic career.
Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon
Wednesday 11 January 2017
Allen Ginsberg died in 1997 and still the books keep coming. 2016 saw a volume published of his uncollected poems, Wait Till I’m Dead. Ginsberg’s devoted archivist and biographer Bill Morgan provides extensive notes, Rachel Zucker adds an introduction (his poems encourage her “to keep writing, to write longer, to write messier, to write more authentically, with more ego and more humility, with everything I have and about everything I am”), and one of Ginsberg’s photographs grace each decade of poesy.
There are plenty of these poems that deserve only one read, never to return to again (unlike, for me, poems like his “Cosmopolitan Greetings,” “Yes and It’s Hopeless,” “Improvisation in Beijing,” “Peace in Bosnia-Herzegovina,” “War Profit Litany,” “Plutonian Ode,” “Howl,” and “September on Jessore Road”). Still, several may provide some consolation or a goad in these times when our war-making state and corporate predators show signs of ramping up their rapacity. Read the rest of this entry »