Well List... I prefer the lurking thing. I hear Martin Robinson has made it safely back to the shores of Britain -- we were sorry to miss him in New York. But, we toasted him with a glass or two and after a bit it seemed he was with us anyhow. Before leaving the UK, Martin sent the Poetry Parrot on ahead. It arrived bedraggled and forlorn at my door, really no more than a sodden bunch of feathers. I picked it up gently and wrapped it in a fluffy towel. When I felt how it was shivering from the transatlantic flight I gave it a tiny sip of brandy. It seemed to perk him up so I gave him a bit more. How was I to know he had a weakness? Well, before long my booze was all gone and the Parrot was hanging off the curtain rods reciting the most vulgar and rude limericks I've ever heard -- that is when he wasn't singing maudlin songs or shouting at the cats to "haul on the bowline." (I suspect he has a past, this Poetry Parrot, and it wasn't in the halls of academia.) It was a long few weeks. I asked for his help in choosing a poem, got down a stack of books and tried a few out on him. His comments ranged from "fucking drug addict can't write for shit -- damn hippie" in a HopkinsVoice -- to what sounded like "she'sawhore" in a croaky imitation of a raven when I suggested Emily Dickenson. It didn't help that he'd landed on my neighbor's head when he said the latter, and then apologized to her by bowing in that drunken formal way, saying, "scuse me lady, I thought you had a bust." Finally, I packed him off to rehab. He should be getting out about now and I've instructed them to send him along to Damon Seils who hopefully will get better guidance from him than I did, now that he's sobered up. The Parrot, not Damon. So, in any event, this is the poem I chose... it is by Jane Kenyon who lives in New Hampshire. It isn't much, but I like it. Insomnia The almost disturbing scent of peonies presses through the screens, and I know without looking how those heavy white heads lean down under the moon's light. A cricket chafes and pauses, chafes and pauses, as if distracted or preoccupied. When I open my eyes to document my sleeplessness by the clock, a point of greenish light pulses near the ceiling. A firefly . . . In childhood I ran out at dusk, a jar in one hand, lid pierced with airholes in the other, getting soaked to the knees in the long wet grass. The light moves unsteadily, like someone whose balance is uncertain after traveling many hours, coming a long way. Get up. Get up and let it out. But I leave it hovering overhead, in case it's my father, come back from the dead to ask, "Why are you still awake? You can put grass in their jar in the morning." +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the reborn Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail "sinister@majordomo.net". To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to "majordomo@majordomo.net". WWW: http://www.majordomo.net/sinister +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "tech-heads and students" +-+ +-+ "the cardie wearing biscuit nibbling belle & sebastian list" +-+ +-+ "jelly-filled danishes" +-+ +----------------------------------------------------------------------+