(How like my Corona, the click and the clack)

How like my Corona, the click and the clack
of my chordant heart breaking, in soot and in black,
of my burning mind's ashes, a smithy's dark floor,
and my self that's reforged as I kneel at the door,

as I hope it will open, though never it could,
for its hinges are melted, though carved out of wood,
for the fire that scorched it, impossibly hot,
will melt even trees; in this flame I am caught.

This text © 2002 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.

Hanneke and the Yamulkes

I just saw Hanneke Cassel (and some of her very talented friends) at Club Passim. It was awesome. She's playing tomorrow night in Westford, and I can't go, but if you can, you should.

I spent most of the time that I was listening also doing some writing, which is just what I used to do when I listened to her play on Tuesdays at McGann's in college. Nothing that I wrote is worthy of posting, though, so in a separate post I'm going to put up another of my poems. I was hoping to find something I'd actually written at McGann's, but all of those are either already up ("(Lucid bent the cover tree)" is one), or not readily available. The one I will put up is from the same few years, at least.