Filed under: How to make conversations at parties.
I love The New Yorker. For reals. But, oh my god, it is anxiety provoking to see those bad boys stack up. It’s a weekly mag and most articles take me two nights to read. So, let’s see, there’s, like, 10 or so major articles each issue, right? By my math, it should come out once a month, but I guess that’s neither here nor there.
Either way, the magazine made me stressed so I, gasp, canceled my subscription and opted instead for the podcasts. It’s a lame compromise because you miss a lot of the goodies (except the fiction discussions which are ahhhmazing). However, it helps me decide if I should purchase a copy that week, or borrow it, or go to the library (See: “Getting Thrifty: Book Buyers on a Budget” post that I’ve just now decided I’ll write sometime in the near future). The May 18th edition was a synch: PURCHASE!
Exhibit A: Amazing Red Hen Press Board Member/ and The New Yorker staff writer extraordinaire Dana Goodyear’s excellent article on the mysteries behind the phenomenum of cheap (wait, not “cheap,” inexpensive) wines we Trader Joe’s frequenters lovingly refer to as two-buck chuck. To read it all you gots to pay, to get a peek go here.
Exhibit B: I have read this poem approximately 1,000 times since May 18th, 2009 and am still rushing back to read it again. In fact, I emailed it to my friends this morning saying, “I’m sure most of you have read this already because you’re hip and shit and it’s in last week’s (two weeks ago?) New Yorker. But OMFG, I’ve read it nearly 100 times and it makes my heart skip beats every time so I had to have my weekly nerd-out and share.” and got responses back like,
“I’m so not hip, but thanks for pretending. I LOVE IT”
“Read it. Reading it again. Great reminder”
“How did I miss that?”
So for those of you that don’t read The New Yorker or poetry or say, “yes,” to both and somehow missed this, or are like me and are typing faster just to read it again…
Delphiniums in a Window Box
by Dean Young May 18, 2009
Every sunrise, even strangers’ eyes.
Not necessarily swans, even crows,
even the evening fusillade of bats.
That place where the creek goes underground,
how many weeks before I see you again?
Stacks of books, every page, characters’
rages and poets’ strange contraptions
of syntax and song, every song
even when there isn’t one.
Every thistle, splinter, butterfly
over the drainage ditches. Every stray.
Did you see the meteor shower?
Did it feel like something swallowed?
Every question, conversation
even with almost nothing, cricket, cloud,
because of you I’m talking to crickets, clouds,
confiding in a cat. Everyone says,
Come to your senses, and I do, of you.
Every touch electric, every taste you,
every smell, even burning sugar, every
cry and laugh. Toothpicked samples
at the farmers’ market, every melon,
plum, I come undone, undone.