BELATED RECOGNITION

I don't like to brag. But sometimes events take such a revealing turn that someone has to rise up to trumpet it out to the uninformed world. Unfortunately, in this case, there is no one to lift up the horn but me, and, even more unfortunately, the tune that I must blow is about none other than myself. I have heard the cliche that tooting vun's own horn is verboten but, mother, excuse me, I must fly in the face of cliches today.
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AH, THE POEMS THAT PURSUE US

You'd think you were done with something when it finally gets into print. Anyway that's what I thought. And good riddance, think I to myself. Because there's more than enough new stuff bubbling up in the mind. Why go back (as Barack says: "and relitigate")?  Which sounds all too much like re-littering the gate. So what do you think happens? I wake up this morning with a change to a poem I wrote centuries ago which got published in a spartan volume that sports the title: A RENEGADE OF BIRDS.
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HAPPY NEW

Well, now that we are well into the well of the New Year a bubble of a question works its way to the top, looks me in the eye, winks and asks: How the hell is the New Year going, buddy boy? Not too bad, says I (devious dodger that I am). And he says: Is it really new or is it the same old year all over again? (This damnable bubble has the eye of an Ancient Mariner; he's staring me down he is.) So I reply: I have to admit it's a lot like the old, despite all my earnest resolutions, dreams, hopes and best intentions. I knew it, he says with leering delight. It's just one long, long old year.
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ABOUT THE JEWS

They have passed through a school more terrible than that known to any other nation.

In consequence the resourcefulness and alertness of the modern Jew are extraordinary.

Every Jew finds in the history of his forbears a voluminous record of coolness and perseverance in terrible predicaments.

Their heroism in facing contempt surpasses that of the saints.

People tried to make them contemptible for twenty centuries by refusing them all honors and dignities and by pushing them down into the mean trades.
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A UNIT OF SENSE

EVERYTHING

IS

SUBJECTIVE

EXCEPT

THE

OBJECTIVE.

TO GLIMPSE A HUMMINGBIRD

I know I'm supposed to be impressed by the scientific advances mankind has made the past century or two and I'm supposed to be awed by the technological achievements of the past decade and I'm supposed to be wowed by the latest cell phone and the latest car off the line and the special effects on the silver screen, but, to tell you the truth, they leave me cold.
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THE EARLY BIRD COMETH

Nothing like a hurricane to make a summer complete. Talktalktalk in houses, in cars, in shops, in super markets, on tennis courts, on the air waves, on the tellee—all about the "Big Guy", Mr. Earl, who's four hundred miles wide and striding up the coast.

Yesterday the air was limp, not a puff, not a whiffle. As if the natural world had gasped. Hour by hour, the long sweltering day went down, but there was a curious hesitancy in its progress. And sometimes it came to a stop the way a great beast suddenly stops in a forest... to listen...
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