I pictured myself that way, rather heroically. Though she grew up in Ohio and spent her last years in warmer climes, Oliver and her poetry cleaved closely for most of her adult life to Truro and Provincetown, Massachusetts, to the rocks, birds, mollusks, stunning sunrises, roaming mammals, and thin forests of Cape Cod. North recently became the president of the N. It amused her, more than anything—that a sonneteer who wrote mostly about the natural world could have a back catalogue that the public thought about at all, let alone printed out and hung over their desks, or clamored for at readings, or quoted at length on social media. A longtime resident of Saratoga Springs, he had a passion for details and a knack for making money, first in furniture, then with a series of inventions: an electric motor, wrought-iron cannons, lunch boxes, and—his most famous—the Cook Auger.
Colors matter: a leaf-green pleat of knitting evokes the natural world that Plath loved. Set on a promontory with a view of Jordan, the Mountains of Edom, and the Dead Sea a mercury gleam in the distance , modern Arad was founded in 1962 by the Israeli government, in the hope of shifting some of the growing population away from the cities of the coastal plain. The people around you are happy and functional; you alone are convinced of impending doom. Thus, a prose poem is poetry in motion. She simply tells her story.
On the final trip to the airport we swerved to avoid a corpse, a man spread-eagled, his stomach hacked open, his entrails stretched from one side of the road to the other. Chandler Canterbury as Huckleberry Finn. He quips at Forche's poetry. I shaved the hair out under my arms. That made her think of the noisiest form of human expression. It may be that no two-state solution ever comes into being, but if it does it is more likely to be a confederation, like the European Union or Canada, than it is to follow the partition plan of 1947, or even the Geneva Accord of 2003, which Oz helped to negotiate.
The dependence of the two sisters on their late father and their servants is shown in their every interaction with others, as well as with one another. She thought it was a good look for him, if a little dorky; the hat heightened his lumberjack aura, and the heavy coat hid his belly and the slightly sad slump of his shoulders. For these two women living without their father might be harder than expected because they had come to rely on him for their every need. Other lines and sentences seem almost as inescapable. But, within minutes, we saw chyrons saying that Marie Colvin and a young photographer, Rémi Ochlik, had been killed in Baba Amr, a neighborhood in the embattled Syrian city of Homs. The bees worked hard at their trades, which served to make the society the hive thrive, but he observes that this was not without consequences. The poet introduces them like dried peach halves because the grocery sack being brought gave a suggestion of some root vegetables being present inside it.
The book achieves a moody, velvety atmosphere, as though events were unfolding under amber-tinted bulbs. On the drive, they showed me the oasis where their grandchildren go camping and ride camels when they visit from the suburbs of Tel Aviv and Haifa. Words are her superpower, but she is suspicious of them. She did, however, want her poems to find readers. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice.
Sorry for the pun; we can't help ourselves. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. I believe I exceed this desirable factor with past and present Air Force assignments. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. By the time she got to her room, she already had a text from him: no words, just hearts and faces with heart eyes and, for some reason, a dolphin.
I remember Callie hugging me as I cried. She rarely gave interviews, and they were invariably gracious and urbane and free of bitterness. Frieda, a poet and painter living in Wales, survives. Poetry has the remarkable power to transport the reader, to redeem even the most terrible deeds, to commemorate the nameless. One could do worse at a cocktail party than simply opening his book at random and reading aloud. Something for your poetry, no? Jeff is the founder of Amazon. Meanwhile, her collected letters—all the diaper-changing, bicycle-hawking, and bill-paying—emit the frenetic inertia that Mary seems to fear.
The town Huck ventures into a town that is in the middle of a festival; all the families have their wagons and are eating their dinners in them. She kept her eyes peeled, always, for animals, which she thought about with great intensity and intimacy, and which often appear in her work not so much as separate species but as kindred spirits. We need this simile, for how many of us have had the experience? When she was a teen-ager, she joined a writing group at a local arts center. In addition, she had converted to Catholicism. The narrator seems to have mistaken her own life for a poem, or maybe a movie.
And, if she did try to ghost, who knew how long it would take him to get the hint? Here is a letter to a friend who was once her psychiatrist, analyzed by a daughter who hardly remembers her mother, and who seeks to exonerate her father. Cook recommended a frontier outpost near the Saranac River, seventeen miles west of Plattsburgh, where prisoners could be put to use mining and manufacturing iron. She writes that a good story has to have a voice that moves not only across pages but also through time. Whatever the fish felt at his moment of death, Oliver assumed, she, too, would feel. My roommate would be worried. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house.