John reads his poem, “Easter 2020,” recently published in Boats Against the Current. He also discusses daffodils, New England’s stone walls, and life during the Covid-19 pandemic and lockdown.
Robert Frost is a real treasure. I've got a complete collection of his work on my shelf that I come back to time to time. He's always had a knack of transforming nature into something more grandiose than simple leaf matter. His sentiments toward isolation being quite similar to that of Whitman as well.
I also liked the metaphorical analogy to Narcissus in your poem. I think we all can relate to Narcissus in one way or another. As for myself, I'm currently transposed in front of a mirror, in a room, staring at a stranger. And, as you've said, he's not nearly as handsome as Narcissus, but I suppose that is the point of aging. To adapt to the bone and wrinkled features that remain. To die with grace, knowing that there is much to do and that I could have walked a path less taken.
But I digress. This response has nothing to do with daffodils or a reckoning. But it did reprise a memory of an article I read about our government pre-ordering bodybags. I've got a lucid mind, so I don't blame you for not making the connection when reading this.
Here’s what I like…any connection at all. I like whatever the work stirs up. And I know I’m quite a bit younger than you. Just wait for the real “who the fuck is that” moment. I have it at least once a month.
Robert Frost is a real treasure. I've got a complete collection of his work on my shelf that I come back to time to time. He's always had a knack of transforming nature into something more grandiose than simple leaf matter. His sentiments toward isolation being quite similar to that of Whitman as well.
I also liked the metaphorical analogy to Narcissus in your poem. I think we all can relate to Narcissus in one way or another. As for myself, I'm currently transposed in front of a mirror, in a room, staring at a stranger. And, as you've said, he's not nearly as handsome as Narcissus, but I suppose that is the point of aging. To adapt to the bone and wrinkled features that remain. To die with grace, knowing that there is much to do and that I could have walked a path less taken.
But I digress. This response has nothing to do with daffodils or a reckoning. But it did reprise a memory of an article I read about our government pre-ordering bodybags. I've got a lucid mind, so I don't blame you for not making the connection when reading this.
Here’s what I like…any connection at all. I like whatever the work stirs up. And I know I’m quite a bit younger than you. Just wait for the real “who the fuck is that” moment. I have it at least once a month.
😂 I haven't quite hit that "who the fuck is that" moment quite yet, but I did happen to notice how much my hands have aged.
I literally had a "I need to start using Nivea" moment because my hands look like a broken desert.