[lit-ideas] Re: Potable Literature

  • From: Andy Amago <aamago@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx, lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
  • Date: Thu, 27 May 2004 22:55:50 -0400 (GMT-04:00)

I want to know about the unbeatable and unopened dead horses in the fridge.  
Are you sauteeing dog food?


Andy





-----Original Message-----
From: Erin Holder <erin.holder@xxxxxxxxxxx>
Sent: May 27, 2004 10:41 PM
To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: Potable Literature

I'm sorry, David, but can you please explain the concept of a library
bookstore?  It's a library, but it's a store?  How can it be a store?  I
thought the whole point of a library was to bring the books back?  And if
it's a store, how can it be a library?  I mean, you can bring the book back
to the store, if you want to, but you certainly don't have to, like in a
library.  Then again, I guess you don't really _have_ to bring the book back
to the library either.  Whatever.   You get what I'm saying, which is this:
What the hell is a library bookstore?  Wait!  Is it a store IN the library?
Yes.  That must be it.  There's no other explanation.


Erin
of the potable library


----- Original Message ----- 
From: "David Ritchie" <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
Sent: Thursday, May 27, 2004 10:15 PM
Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: Potable Literature


>
>
> I may be right, I may be wrong,
> But I'm perfectly willing to swear
> That when you turn'd and smiled at me,
> A flannel wrap, or someone who cared,
>  sang in Berk'ley Square
>
>
>
> Sorry.  A bit exuberant because I've just run across two volumes by Norman
> MacCaig, in perfect condition in the library bookstore, the first verse
I've
> ever seen there.  It's a sign.  Clearly I should either attack Canada,
> setting all the vedics to "stun," or check the fridge for unbeatable and
> unopened dead horses.
>
> But first, a taste of the 1956 MacCaig, "Falls of Measach"
>
> The wind was basins slopping over.
> The river plunged into its ravine
> Like coins into a stocking.  The day
> Was like the buzzard on the pine.
>
> It looked at us with eyes like resin
> >From some shelf of the scaly past
> And could see nothing in between,
> For it knew nothing it had lost.
>
> But we were our continuation
> And saw our graves behind us like
> Waterfalls marking the stages
> To some rich plunge into the dark.
>
> Let the wind spill one other gust
> And the day like the buzzard will
> Sail, and sink invisible
> As a fossil in the distant hill.
>
>
> David Ritchie
> Portland, Oregon
>
>
>
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