Saxon Henry's Blog, page 22

Being Washed by Water

by Saxon Henry

10. Autumn mornings, a moist sky; the water speaks an untruth, appearing as cold as frosted chrome though it is deliciously tepid. Only when storms roll through to whip its surface into frenzied motion does the lake’s visage imply warmth. The drone of passing boats fade but the breakwater continues its chant as if its pagan restlessness can provide an accompaniment to my internal churning.

11. In the drenching light of early morning, the leaves on the Columnar Maple in my courtya...

A Pillow Book: Being Washed by Water

by Saxon Henry

10. Autumn mornings, a moist sky; the water speaks an untruth, appearing as cold as frosted chrome though it is deliciously tepid. Only when storms roll through to whip its surface into frenzied motion does the lake’s visage imply warmth. The drone of passing boats fade but the breakwater continues its chant as if its pagan restlessness can provide an accompaniment to my internal churning.

11. In the drenching light of early morning, the leaves on the Columnar Maple in my courtya...

The Writing Life: Tiny Parcels of Effervescence

by Saxon Henry

The ocean turns steely as the sun moves behind a plum-colored cloudbank flooded with mauve layers of escaping brightness. The closest water to the proximity of the sunset glimmers, imitating the way a hunter’s gun catches early morning’s brilliance when the lid of a blind is thrown open and he emerges, his barrel pointing skyward. The sand is littered with tiny parcels of effervescence as light’s last showing of the day illuminates wet bits of broken shells their former inhabita...

The History of Being Gunned Down

9. There is nothing like witnessing a flaming sunset from the water: watching from a boat I marvel as a ball of melon-hued radiance splinters the sky in shards of orange and pink, the crisp air sharpening the illumination. The wind is biting, setting my teeth on edge as I skid through the swells on the bay’s skin, reveling in the feeling of gliding through the tungsten-colored world. I am oblivious to the fact that as I waft through a twilight-washed fantasy, people are being gunned down in a...

A Pillow Book: On Being Gunned Down

9. There is nothing like witnessing a flaming sunset from the water: watching from a boat I marvel as a ball of melon-hued radiance splinters the sky in shards of orange and pink, the crisp air sharpening the illumination. The wind is biting, setting my teeth on edge as I skid through the swells on the bay’s skin, reveling in the feeling of gliding through the tungsten-colored world. I am oblivious to the fact that as I waft through a twilight-washed fantasy, people are being gunned down in a...

Parma Without Percussion

The view from my hotel room in Parma; the trees fresh with moisture.

The leaves on the trees are drenched and heavy, glistening when caught by the eager beams of the streetlights. Rain cascades like strings of beads flowing all the way from heaven. When the pouring forth strikes a hot white bulb, it smokes as if to say, “I’m not giving up my heat without a fight.” As the wind pulsates, the leaves shimmer, the droplets taking them hostage as they ornament them in crystalline artistry. It’s the...

A Pillow Book: Parma Without Percussion

The view from my hotel room in Parma; the trees fresh with moisture.

The leaves on the trees are drenched and heavy, glistening when caught by the eager beams of the streetlights. Rain cascades like strings of beads flowing all the way from heaven. When the pouring forth strikes a hot white bulb, it smokes as if to say, “I’m not giving up my heat without a fight.” As the wind pulsates, the leaves shimmer, the droplets taking them hostage as they ornament them in crystalline artistry. It’s the...

Traveling with Books: Making Room for Ideas to Visit…

by Saxon Henry

I have touched literary history with my own hands! During a number of trips to the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library at Yale University over the summer, I reserved work by writers whose literary legacies are decidedly important to the advancement of writing and criticism. My first archival foray introduced me to Edmund Wilson’s journals, Henry Miller’s Paris diaries, and letters and sonnets written by Petrarch (on parchment; in his own hand)! Each choice has significance t...

A Pillow Book: On Juxtapositions

7. Lush red berries frosted with snow. Bald warm-toned stones dripping with icicles. A blissful hush has taken the snow-plunged world.

8. Seagulls careen over snow-pack deposited by a winter storm, the green or brown they are normally perched upon suddenly blanketed in frosty white. Neighbors toss bits of crackers into the air as the birds circle, nabbing crumbs from a dank sky the color of their wings. Afterwards they bob contentedly on the surface of the cove, pleased, as if they’ve had a ro...

It’s #WellWritten Wednesday & There’s Trembling, Shaking

Today’s #WellWritten offering is a nod to the anniversary of 9/11 and to non-violence, my choice inspired by Carly Simon’s smart lyrics, some of which eerily echo my feelings about the horror that took place twelve years ago today—“Oh, my heart is aching,” indeed—and the fact the opening scene of the video includes a powerful visual of the Twin Towers. I thought very soberingly about the anniversary as I listened to President Obama speak about Syria last night. No one wants to see children ga...