I recently returned from a trip to Boston. Not to tell stories out of school--more about that later--but I overheard a British couple complaining about the cold, rainy weather, if that tells you anything.
My travel guide called the Boston Museum one of world's largest. I love museums, but world's largest . . . not. Great gift shop, though. It also has a Great Hall which looks something like this:
As many of my readers know, I went to Harvard--not only on Friday, but Saturday too! Here's a picture of me at the Sackler Museum--the "Slacker" as it's called in my dyslexic subjective reality--mugging with the bust of fellow poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
Speaking of, here's a poem from Nearing Narcoma that mentions Longfellow:
Whitman Sampler
The last great poet has died,
having joined the immortals
for a softball game in the sky.
He lofts a deep fly to center,
his soul a can of corn.
That rummy Edgar Allan Poe
tags at third & foots the line,
testing the unknown arm of
aloof academician
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
I can watch them play all day
if I gaze into the sun
& stand on one leg just so.
And when the sun goes down,
I close my eyes & listen.
What slow summer evenings
I've heard the muse calling
Emily Dickinson--sliding,
cleats high, across the plate
in a cloud of dust--safe at home.
My travel guide called the Boston Museum one of world's largest. I love museums, but world's largest . . . not. Great gift shop, though. It also has a Great Hall which looks something like this:
As many of my readers know, I went to Harvard--not only on Friday, but Saturday too! Here's a picture of me at the Sackler Museum--the "Slacker" as it's called in my dyslexic subjective reality--mugging with the bust of fellow poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
Speaking of, here's a poem from Nearing Narcoma that mentions Longfellow: Whitman Sampler
The last great poet has died,
having joined the immortals
for a softball game in the sky.
He lofts a deep fly to center,
his soul a can of corn.
That rummy Edgar Allan Poe
tags at third & foots the line,
testing the unknown arm of
aloof academician
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
I can watch them play all day
if I gaze into the sun
& stand on one leg just so.
And when the sun goes down,
I close my eyes & listen.
What slow summer evenings
I've heard the muse calling
Emily Dickinson--sliding,
cleats high, across the plate
in a cloud of dust--safe at home.
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