yd tor yd yd


poems and photographs 460

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another poem and photograph every weekday. Or so.

(photographs: Tom Davis)





I'm sorry about the delay in recommencing. Life intervened, as it does sometimes.




Wednesday, February 21, 2018








at century's end,
compounded metallic lusters

in reference
to natural sheens (dragonfly
and beetle wings,

marbled light on kerosene)
and invented names
as coolly lustrous

as their products'
scarab-gleam: Quetzal,
Aurene, Favrile.

from Mark Doty, Favrile







Tuesday, February 20, 2018









Love, thou are deep:
I cannot cross thee.
But, were there Two
Instead of One --
Rower, and Yacht -- some sovereign Summer --
Who knows, but we'd reach the Sun?

Love, thou are Veiled:
A few behold thee,
Smile, and alter, and prattle, and die.
Bliss were an Oddity, without thee,
Nicknamed by God


From Emily Dickinson, Love, thou art high








Monday, February 19, 2018


reaching out





reaching out


Love is not condescension, never
that, nor books, nor any pencil trace

on paper, no; nor in how we talk
about each other. Love is a tree

with branches reaching out to always
with roots that come from everywhere,

and no trunk. Have you seen it?
No. You can't. Your deep desire

can't find it. The longing you feel for
love is who you are. No other.
When you become the Lover, your
longing will be like this:

a man in the ocean, holding a plank.
Soon, the plank, the man,

the encircling sea itself, all of it, are one:
one being, one communion;

the swaying sea, the teacher,
the secret of God.


Rumi, transl. Tom Davis







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