Writer || MFA @umdenglish || PhD @binghamtonu || From an old farm in rural KY || Thinks about endings. And clouds.
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ALT from Madness, Rack, and Honey by Mary Ruefle I get so very tired of having to talk about literature. I didn’t begin writing because I wanted to sit in a room and talk about the construction of subjectivity in Wordsworth and Ashbery; I began writing because I had made friends with the dead: they had written to me, in their books, about life on earth and I wanted to write back and say yes, house, bridge, river, hair, no maybe, never, forever.
ALT THIS ONLY A valley and above it forests in autumn colors. A voyager arrives, a map led him here. Or perhaps memory. Once, long ago, in the sun, When the first snow fell, riding this way He felt joy, strong, without reason, Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight, Of a train on the viaduct, a feast of motion. He returns years later, has no demands. He wants only one, most precious thing: To see, purely and simply, without name, Without expectations, fears, or hopes, At the edge where there is no I or not-I. South Hadley, 1985
