R.I.P.

I had no idea when I posted my previous entry that it would turn out to be so apropos. And the other day, as we are still digging out here in DC and getting reacquainted with the sun, came the sad news of Lucille Clifton's passing.

Despite the sadness of her loss, however, one can find great warmth and uplift in reading her poems. Look here and here.

Spring is only 11 days (meteorological) or 30 days (astronomical) away!

A Noteable Birthday

Today is the 128th birthday of James Joyce, creator in my opinion of the most beautiful prose in English. To wit, this passage, the lines that close "The Dead":

Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Happy New Year, only one month late!