Wine Poems

That's right, Wine Poems. Available only in Naphlion, Greece: poems in a box of wine.*

*Results may vary.

I Am Braver Than Henry Miller

That's right, the big man who broke literary boundaries and wrote the risque Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn is a coward when it comes to cold, dark, wet confined spaces. He twice visited Mycenae, an ancient Greek hilltop fortress, home of the Mycenaen empire. Each time he attempted to climb down the winding steps that lead into the underground cistern:

"Thinking back on it now, after a lapse of months, I honestly believe that I would rather be shot than forced to descend that staircase alone. In fact, I think I would die of heart failure before ever reaching the bottom."
--- Henry Miller, The Colossus of Maroussi (1941)

Go to this Henry Miller blog to read more about his cowardice.

Not only did I descend the staircase, I reached the bottom. Along with a lot of other tourists. Here's the picture to prove it...okay that's not me, but a bunch of my students--I'm the one at the bottom taking the picture.

So there Henry Miller.

Banana in Santorini

So thanks to Heather and her banana lecture I did not go hungry today when faced with a green banana and unable to peel it the right way. I flipped that sucker over and opened it from the bottom. That's right, I'm as smart as a monkey. Here's a picture of the blue monkeys fresco in Santorini:

Jackass in Greece

So this fine piece of artwork was over my bed in Heraklion, Crete. You know the Leda and the Swan myth, right? Horny old Zeus wants Leda so he turns himself into a swan and gets what he wants. I mean how could he not? Look at that swan--that is one smooth lady-killing swan.

Just to let you know, we've left Crete and the creepy bestiality picture behind and are now in the island paradise (cliche deserved) Santorini. I mean seriously. This picture is from my hotel:


You know the deal: the island has a volcano in the middle, and it blew sometime before Plato, and so there's this huge crater in the island that filled with the sea and surrounding the caldera are cliffs, on which people naturally built hotels and restaurants...because really what's the worse that could happen? And now people pay insane amounts of money to get taken for overpriced rooms, food, and drink in order to hang on the side of the cliff. And yeah, it's probably the most breath-stopping places I've ever been.

Finally, this is a picture of a jackass coming up one of the winding village roads. Or maybe it's a donkey...or a mule...the point is it's a play on words with the title. This is a literary blog after all.

Live from Crete: Kevin Keck?

You thought this post was going to be about me bragging about what a great time I'm having in Greece, but actually it's a post about me bragging about the review I wrote about Kevin Keck's Are You There God? It’s Me. Kevin. that has just been published in The Pedestal. Ha! That will teach you to try and anticipate what form my narcissism will take.

Greece or Bust

That's an old map of Crete and that's where I'm headed. Three plane rides and several time changes later, I'll arrive in Heraklion.

Below is an illustration of executions preformed by hoisting the victims up in the air and then dropping them on a hook, where they would hang impaled until dead. They don't practice that anymore...I'm fairly certain...


Wish me happy trails...

Goodbye NatPoMo

Crossing the Bar

by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it's May! National Poetry Month is over, and we can return to not caring about poetry. I can hear a nation-wide sigh of relief. Poets in particular can return to their regular lives as longshoremen and astrophysicists, remember their roles as mothers and sons. Speaking of mothers, I hear we will be required to care about them one day this month. That, I suppose, is only fair. Though if your mother is a poet, you may have already done your time.