Drove in a blue daze thru Kinderhook 
with it almost raining. 
Lights on in the stucco house. 
Jason in a steep decline, screamed 
is the damn house on the market, 
you don’t need a sump pump. 

Dust, sawdust, a week of spaghetti 
glued on plates piled near the sink. 
I try to make tea out of dust. 
See my own house exploding like a baby 
left alone in a house with no food 
chewing on electric wires. By four

sawdust glues my eyelids together 
and I curl into a cocoon of myself 
under a quilt where it’s black. 
I wake up dragged down too, wanting 
to sleep thru the month 
tho the bed smells of cats. 

The pizza Jason brings onto the blue spread 
dries. A pawmark hardens in it 
like catprints in old bricks. 
We put our names in the cement last August 
and the cat’s paw on a day 
it was too hot and humid to dry.

(From Lyn Lifshin’s Diary, 1977)

When I die I shall go to May.
It will be green, the colour green
in all its thousand shining faces.

Every day will feel like Christmas Eve
when I was ten. Every green leaf
will be perfection exactly as it is

and yet will grow and change
every time I turn my eyes to it.
Every moment will be like the arc

of a diver breaking the waters
of a green lake. I know this because
this is what May is like here and now.

Almost unbearable. It does not hold
for half an hour. Yet in the shifting,
growing hymn of light and colour and leaf

is the still, simple reason that I garden.

(Monty Don in The Ivington Diaries, 2010)

Even nature wants to pay homage
to the mothers who feel unhappy
because they can’t realize
the desires of their children.

Dona Teresinha came to visit me.
She gave me 15 cruzeiros and said
it was for Vera to go to the circus.
I’m going to use the money to buy bread.

Yesterday I got half a pig’s head.
We ate the meat and saved the bones.
Today I put the bones on to boil
and into the broth I put some potatoes.

Night came. The stars are hidden.
I lit a page from a newspaper
and ran it over the walls. This is the way
the favela dwellers kill mosquitoes.

My children are always hungry.

(From Carolina Maria de Jesus’ diary, Mothers’ Day 1958)

In the afternoon, he took us to the mosque.
The sun darted through, and how!
We rode a while on the donkey.

In the evening, through the streets.
A café decorated with pictures.
Beautiful watercolors.

We ransacked the place buying.
A street scene around a mouse.
Finally someone killed it with a shoe.

We landed at a sidewalk café.
An evening of colors as tender
as they were clear.

Virtuosos at checkers. Happy hour.
Louis found exquisite color tidbits
and I — was to catch them.

(From Paul Klee’s diary, April 1914)

“Last night the English Opera House was burnt down — a magnificent fire.” 

Charles Greville

All the gentility of London was there
from Princess Esterhazy’s ball and all
the clubs; gentlemen in their fur cloaks, pumps,
and velvet waistcoats mixed with objects like

the sans-culottes in the French Revolution —
men and women half-dressed, covered with rags
and dirt, some with nightcaps or handkerchief
round their heads — then the soldiers, the firemen,

and the engines, and the new police running
and bustling, clearing the way, clattering
along, with that intense interest and restless
curiosity, which received fresh stimulus

at every renewed burst of the flames as
they rose in a shower of sparks like gold dust.

(From The Greville Memoirs, January 1830)

I dreamt of you again last night. 
And when I woke up it was as if 
you had died afresh. I read 
all your letters this afternoon.

I feel as if we had collected all 
our wheat into a barn to make bread 
and beer for the rest of our lives 
and now our barn has been burnt down 

and we stand on a cold winter morning 
looking at the charred ruins. For this 
little room was the gleanings of our life. 
All our happiness was over this fire 

and with these books. Voltaire blessing us 
with up-raised hand on the wall. No one 
to talk to about my pleasures. I write in 
an empty book. I cry in an empty room.

(Dora Carrington’s diary, February 1932)

Two feet of snow fell last evening.  
It lies in largest masses on the flat 

fronded branches of firs and the mounded 
close foliage of the live-oaks, and it 

bends and welds together the tassels 
of the pines. The ouzel heeds not the roar 

of avalanches, the heavy masses 
of snow from banks and trees, and the constant 

upspringing of pines. He would not cease 
singing or feeding for an earthquake. 

(From John Muir’s journal, February 1873)