Persimmons

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Eating fruit and reading poetry, what could be a more decadent friday morning?

“Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,   
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times   
eyes closed. These I painted blind.   
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,   
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.”
 

The end of Persimmons, by LI-YOUNG LEE. You can read the rest of the poem here:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171753

{Photo credit to me.}


Marginalia : Native Speaker

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1. I was reading a library copy of Native Speaker. One my predecessors had bracketed a passage in which Henry is describing the reasons he loves his wife. The note asks, Why doesn’t he tell her this? It was probably just diligence, an annotation for an essay, one of many marginalia to be made and forgotten. But I like to imagine the midnight reader with her blunt pencil, and the cold tea, just despairing for him. Why doesn’t he tell her this? For a moment, holding my own warm tea I had an urge to tell everyone how sorely I love them.

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2. Skipping through the book to photograph it for this blog post, I noticed a comment I hadn’t seen before. A writer’s dream:
 
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3. Libraries are magical.