VivTown, Population: 1

text, images, poetry, miscellany, marginalia

Saturday, May 14, 2011

When this moon falls…

An ensō by  Nantenbo a few days before the coming full moon.

When this moon falls... (click to see larger)

posted by viv at 10:20 am  

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

No Beginning or End


posted by viv at 9:00 pm  

Friday, May 6, 2011

Doodle in Blue Uniball

Three Candles for the Mist

posted by viv at 12:05 pm  

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Egg Heads

More from the Ol' Notebook

“When you start with a portrait and try to find pure form by abstracting more and more, you must end up with an egg.”
— Pablo Picasso


posted by viv at 3:01 pm  

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

I Like Floor Plans

Conjuring the Rooms - from an old notebook - click to see larger


posted by viv at 5:18 pm  

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Happy Birthday Shakespeare


My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

posted by viv at 9:37 am  

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Allen Ginsberg

Allen Ginsberg with Paul McCartney “Ballad of the Skeletons”

posted by viv at 4:04 pm  

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

William Butler Yeats

I used to recite this one to my kids at bedtime.

The Song of the Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

posted by viv at 12:25 pm  

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Agha Shadid Ali


not in the clear stream,
I went fishing in the desert sky.
With rain-hooks at the sun’s end,
I caught a rainbow, its colors
slippery in my hands.
I gently separated,
like the bones of a trout,
the blue from the red,
the green from the yellow,
my knife sharp, silver-exact,
each color lean,
impeccably carved.
But the rainbow’s end,
though I cleaned and washed
the earth from it,
tasted bitter,
like gold.


From the book A Nostalgist’s Map of America (Norton: 1991, out of print). About Agha Shadid Ali.

posted by viv at 11:15 am  

Friday, April 15, 2011

Viral Excuse

norovirus norovirus


Our poetry parade halted suddenly because I contracted a nasty case of the norovirus, which, when magnified and dyed, has its own kind of beauty. I am well now & will blow the whistle and get the parade moving again tomorrow.




posted by viv at 8:30 am  
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