Sunday, September 25, 2016



The cops holler

“Drop the Gun!”

When there is no gun!


Bob Arnold

24 sept 16

see the fine Australian film ANIMAL KINGDOM (2010) for a fictionalized dramatization
of the police calling out, "He has a gun!" It's now the new buzz words since the cameras
are always rolling.

Saturday, September 24, 2016


One evening, when nothing was planned — often the best way to spend a late summer
evening — and Susan was down with a bug & fever, so I read awhile up in the bedroom with
her, by the large windows looking to the river, reading by the tail end of the daylight until
there was no light and Susan had fallen asleep and I kept on reading this large and beautiful 
book, heavy on the lap, with its deep showcase of the New York School of Poets, both
generations, meaning Ashbury, O'Hara and Koch to Berrigan and them all, and while reading
I just happened to type in wanting to find on the Internet Aram Saroyan's two early books
of poems from Random House via a put-down newsman reading the poems on a major network at the time and although I couldn't find the reading I found Aram Saroyan, in bad lighting, and all the
more interesting because of his intriguing storytelling of the same time I was reading about
in this large art book and I recommend everyone listening to Aram talking, reading his poems,
laughing softly and recalling and actually hearing him read his own one word gems and later
fielding questions from a friendly room.

[ BA ]

Friday, September 23, 2016


L I V E S      M A T T E R
                                              to Emmett Till

Laquan McDonald (black)
what a fine and dignified name

isn’t even 18 years old
and dead

murdered by
Jason Van Dyke (white)

a policeman
on a busy Chicago street

in plain view

millions have died
a natural death

since Laquan McDonald
was born

but he isn’t
one of them


Bob Arnold
28 aug 2016


A U T U M N      E Q U I N O X

One time I was almost ready to be born

before I had begun to remember

the palms of my hands had not yet unfurled

on the one tree of the whole of darkness

the tree before waiting the hearing tree

the left hand had not yet told the right hand

This is our time our season is now

the only time and you must wake and begin

to remember and to know who you are

you will come to remember but forgetting

comes on its own and you will try to tell what cannot be

told and you will have only

the old words and will try to use them

for the first time but the beginning

has gone from the words and there is no way

now to bring it back to them again

the right hand learns but the left hand is the prophet

Pain was waiting that time with her one key

long before the first daylight had appeared


W S     M E R W I N

Garden Time
Copper Canyon 2016

Tuesday, September 20, 2016


House With Garden (1917)

I wanted to have a home in the country

with a very large garden — not so much

for the flowers, the trees, and the greenery

(certainly there will be that, too; it's so lovely)

but for me to have animals. Ah to have animals!

Seven cats at least — two completely black,

and, for contrast, two as white as snow.

A parrot, quite substantial, so I can listen to him

saying things with emphasis and conviction.

As for dogs, I do believe that three will be enough.

I should like two horses, too (ponies are nice).

And absolutely three or four of those remarkable,

those genial animals, donkeys,

to sit around lazily, to rejoice in their well-being.


C.P Cavafy
translated from the Greek by Daniel Mendelsohn
Knopf, 2009

Monday, September 19, 2016



Traveling by car

On the interstate

North, along with many

Others, the beauty

Of the day is a farmer

And his team of work

Horses — across the median

And the other highway —

Gallantly plowing a field,

And neither seeing or

Caring if we see how good

Some of us still live


Two farm boys hike

Into a high pasture

Lit by rain clouds,

Scaled of singing birds,

And call out the names or

Favorite expressions of the

Dozen cows grazing who stomp

At a run uphill where

Boys and cows gather

In a circle of affection —

Tails twitching, hands slapping

Hide — all heads spilled to

A scattered pail of grain

Can You Imagine

Can you imagine this

Being your life at six

Years old walking out

The woodshed door as

A blue heron lifts up

From our old truck

And you run inside

Even though you

May be late for

School to tell us

About the bird this

Big (arms can’t spread

Yet big enough) as

We look into your

Expression loving that

Bird we missed

A Gift for the Living

We heard them —

But it was a moment

Before we saw them

Clear the trees —

I counted 66 or more

And he was still

Counting, his hand

To the sun, as

                                           Geese flew over




B O B     A R N O L D

Once In Vermont