August 14, 1994 |
"I got the idea for these poems from Patricia Highsmith's wonderful article about Jeffrey Dahmer. What fascinated me--this stood out in the article--was that Dahmer got this feeling, 'I'm never going to see him again, the most important person in my life,' about the guy he had known for only 20 minutes, who was getting ready to leave. So he came up behind him and killed him. I mean, if you want to possess somebody, what better way than to kill them?"
April 3, 1994
I have reached a time when words no longer help: Instead of guiding me across the moors Strong landmarks in the uncertain out-of-doors, Or like dependable friars on the Alp Saving with wisdom and with brandy kegs, They are gravel-stones, or tiny dogs which yelp Biting my trousers, running round my legs.
June 15, 1993 |
The so-called genius awards from the MacArthur Foundation went to three Californians on Monday, who were recognized for such diverse work as research into the mysteries of pregnancy, the composition of modern poetry and translations of ancient Greek writings. Self-taught evolutionary biologist Margie Profet and writers Thom Gunn and Jim Powell--all from the Bay Area--were among 31 MacArthur fellows around the country who will receive annual grants of $30,000 to $75,000 for the next five years.
June 13, 1993
Christmas week, 1985 It could be, Christopher, from your leafed-in house In Santa Monica where you lie and wait You hear outside a sound resume Fitful, anonymous, Of Berlin 50 years ago As autumn days got late-- The whistling to their girls from young men who Stood in the deep dim street, below Dingy facades which crumbled like a cliff, Behind which in a rented room You listened, wondering if By chance one might be whistling up for you, Adding unsentimentally "It could not possibly be."
November 6, 1988 |
The self-defined, astride the created will They burst away; the towns they travel through Are home for neither bird nor holiness, For birds and saints complete their purposes. At worst, one is in motion; and at best, Reaching no absolute, in which to rest, One is always nearer by not keeping still.
November 6, 1988 |
Waiting for when the sun an hour or less Conveniently oblique makes visible The painting on one wall of this recess By Caravaggio, of the Roman School, I see how shadow in the painting brims With a real shadow, drowning all shapes out But a dim horse's haunch and various limbs, Until the very subject is in doubt. But evening gives the act, beneath the horse And one indifferent groom, I see him sprawl, Foreshortened from the head, with hidden face, Where he has fallen, Saul becoming Paul.