Ann Carson

Epitaph: Evil

To get the sound take everything that is not the sound drop it
Down a well, listen.
Then drop the sound. Listen to the difference


This life

Y’know, it’s all so beautiful and perfect while at exactly the same time sad and difficult and never at all what we expected, it’s almost too much to bear sometimes.

What is this life, anyway?

Chocolate pudding, and children with beautiful eyes, and just the right wine with just the right dinner.


if you click the picture, you can read the article


I am a total Rafa Nadal fan.

And not just because he has great legs.

He is a true athlete, and warrior. He looks like he’s sneering, but he’s actually just concentrating. He’s dauntless and fearless and completely unflappable.

I want to be him when I grow up.

Except for the Spanish tennis-playing part, of course. That would be weird. And impossible.


The Time of Secrets

A huge red sun would be setting far away in a sulphurous sea, our shadows would already be long: their feet sticking to our soles, they would slide on our right over the surface of the kermes oaks, be slashed in two, in passing, by a pine tree trunk and suddenly loom vertical against a golden rock face. The first hardly perceptible evening breeze flowed towards us from the hilltops. In the sky, a black flight of starlings dived and soared again, changing in size and shape along unexpected curves, like an ant-hill carried away by the wind, and then, amid the resinous silence of the pine-woods, a few lost notes of the angelus of Allauch would evangelize the echoes of the cliffs.

I had not forgotten my love, but my grief took on the tinge of the season: it was a wistful regret, a tender melancholy which recomposed my memories. I had obliterated the humiliating ordeals, the poet on all fours on the road and the devastating last appearance of the Cassignol family. I saw two violet-blue eyes across a sheaf of irises, a bunch of blue grapes before half-open lips, and, on the singing swing, the brown nape of a little girl who was pointing her white sandals towards the quivering boughs of an olive tree . . . Then, in my dreams at night, I would hear distant music and the little red queen would glide away, infinitely sad and lonely, under the gloomy arches of the forests of long ago.

~ Marcel Pagnol


I know it’s not, technically, “poetry,” but anything this lovely, and said this beautifully, is.


I don’t know about you, but I was holding my breath by the end.

(and an interesting juxtaposition between her grace, concentration, and calm and the judge whose biggest achievement that day was in her virtuosic wielding of a can of hairspray)