When you are tucked away in a medieval village in Italy with no Internet signal and you have finished all of the books you brought with you, you start to go into your own head. You recall a favorite poem, story, or movie and you curl up in its familiarity. Sometimes, I curl up in the thought of a platter of fried chicken and a glass of Kentucky bourbon (straight up, of course). The past week I have curled up in the familiar words of a poem from Galway Kinnell. Here it is:

Turkeys

by Galway Kinnell

Sometimes we saw shadows of gods
in the trees; silenced, we went on.
Sometimes the dog would bound off
over the snow, into the forest.
Sometimes a tree had twenty
or more black turkeys in it, each
seeming the size of a small black bear.
We remember them for their care
for their kind ever since we watched the big hen
in the very top of the tree shaking
load after load of apples down to the flock.
Sometimes I felt I would never
come out of the woods, I thought
its deeper darkness might absorb me
or feed me to the black turkeys
and I would cry out for the dog
and the dog would not answer.

Also, I exchanged some music with a French girl staying in the same village, mostly classical, and mostly featuring the cello. This, reminded me of a video which has danced around in my head like an awkward ballet of disjointed thought. Here it is:

“I’m tired.” Bancini said it. Bancini from Kesey’s Cuckoo’s Nest. In the movie version, Bancini is played by Josip Elic, and he always said “I’m tired,” too. I’m tired. I’m saying it. I’m tired. I’m exhausted after writing three 20-page term papers. Worn out. I’m tired. But, nevertheless, here…is…this week’s recommended reading from online literary magazines…zzzzzzzzzzz…

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Something happened while I was on a plane. Maybe it was interesting. Or maybe it was the last thing I expected to discover when my phone powered up on the tarmac Sunday night. See, that right there is my pessimism looking out. Truth be told I would like to eradicate my pessimism, but I doubt it. Shock isn’t in my gamut of emotions. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. I’m sure you’re a pretty nice person. Today’s links are a mixture of literary happy feet and sad feet. Pessimism and optimism. There are some independent bookstores still clinging on – here’s how. Who knew: Independent publishers are having a hard time avoiding persecution in Vietnam. The University of Washington released a study on the role of e-readers in academia. And Harper Lee emerged, albeit briefly. There, that’s enough. Now I’m going to turn off my phone, hide in my past successes, and see what happens.

There are different ways to look at the night. My way shows a quiet chicken coup accompanied by the cold raking sound of a chain attached to a dog’s collar as it passes over and against the side of the brick house.

A Prison Evening

by Faiz Ahmad Faiz

From the winding maze of evening stars,
step by step descends the night.
The breeze passes close by, thus,
as if someone murmurs a word of love.
The exiled trees of the prison yard,
heads bent, are engrossed in drawing
patterns and sketches on the sky’s skirt.
On the roof ’s shoulder gleams
the fair hand of moonlight’s affection.
The glitter of stars has dissolved in dust,
the sky’s blue melted in a splendor of light.
In green corners, shadows of blue
bloom, as in the heart
the pain of separation surges.
Constantly, thought reassures the heart:
so sweet is life at this moment.
Those who stir tyranny’s poison
will succeed neither today nor tomorrow.
So what if they have already extinguished
the candles in the bridal chamber of love?
Show us if they can put out the moon!

Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja

Also, this is a beautiful video of Josh T. Pearson howling his beautifully morose hymns through a wise beard while walking the streets of Paris.

When We Hold Our Hands is a book I wrote about my son. Myself and my son. The two of us together. I tried to look ahead. I can’t see the future, but I attempted. I wanted to see what was underneath our childhood, or his childhood, pretending as a child, and my pretending to be a child, as a father. When we hold our hands, my son and I, there is lightning there, symbiosis. We are living off of one another. I wrote this book for my son, to my son, to myself about my son, to our holding hands.

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