Philip Wilson Steer
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3.26.2014
3.18.2014
3.16.2014
3.14.2014
soprano
When you vanish up the staircase
Of the octaves
I know there is a window
Opening into
A garden
Where the tern, restless
On a plum branch
Prepares to migrate
Down the blue curve
Of that vein
Deep in your neck.
Photo: Alfonso Almendros
(post via Paris Review)
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3.12.2014
3.11.2014
cornell
top: June 7, 1971 Joseph Cornell through garage window
bottom: Cornell in window, 1972
Harry Roseman
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3.07.2014
2.27.2014
staring, hypnotized, into the eyes of my reflection
Before they built the apartment blocks across the street, before everything was screened off and suffocating, I used to watch Bucharest through the night from the triple window in my room above Ştefan cel Mare. The window usually reflected the room’s cheap furniture—a bedroom set of yellowed wood, a dresser and mirror, a table with some aloe and asparagus in clay pots, a chandelier with globes of green glass, one of which had been chipped long ago. The reflected yellow space turned even yellower as it deepened into the enormous window, and I, a thin, sickly adolescent in torn pajamas and a stretched-out vest, would spend the long afternoon perched on the small cabinet in the bedstead, staring, hypnotized, into the eyes of my reflection in the transparent glass.
from Mircea Cartarescu's novel The Blinding, tr. Sean Cotter
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2.20.2014
2.19.2014
2.18.2014
high windows
When I see a couple of kids
And guess he’s fucking her and she’s
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise
Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives—
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide
To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That’ll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark
About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately
Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.
Philip Larkin
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