Edna O'Brien

 

She stirred her Manhattans

With her finger.

The ice would clink

On the side of the glass.

 

She kept every issue

Of the New York Times

And smoked like a chimney,

But with more delight.

 

She had been in prison.

She had written a book.

She smelled of Manhattans

And musty dogs.

 

Her house burned

With her inside it,

Blazing like tinder

On a windless night.

 

It was like the burning

Of the Library at Alexandria –

All those old papers

Going up in flames –

 

But the real loss, of course,

Was Edna,

Her stirring finger,

And her innocent dogs.

Lights on the Potomac

 

There were lightning and fireworks,

Each with its own thunder,

Glowsticks on the water,

Headlamps and headlights,

 

Even a campfire

In the bed of a canoe,

Torches on shore,

A lit-up American flag.

 

The summer darkness

Was filthy with light

As the sky faded

And the show began:

 

A passing plane

Blinked;

A mansion glittered;

Fireflies danced.

 

Every year this country

Is born in fire,

Etching its light

On the canvas of falling night.

The Window

 

For now, the window is open.

Light comes in. The air is clean.

Darkness is gathering,

Always gathering,

But even the twilight

Is bright enough to love.

The Earl of Pembroke and the Nuns

 

This story, from Walter Scott’s Notes to his novel Rob Roy, struck me as hilarious.

 

“The nunnery of Wilton was granted to the Earl of Pembroke upon its dissolution by the magisterial authority of Henry VIII, or his son Edward VI. On the accession of Queen Mary, of Catholic memory, the Earl found it necessary to reinstall the Abbess and her fair recluses, which he did with many expressions of his remorse, kneeling humbly to the vestals, and inducting them into the convent and possessions from which he had expelled them. With the accession of Elizabeth the accommodating Earl again resumed his Protestant faith, and a second time drove the nuns from their sanctuary. The remonstrances of the Abbess, who reminded him of his penitent expressions on his former occasion, could wring from him no other answer than that in the text—‘Go spin, you jade—go spin.’”