DiaBLOGue

Many people have observed something unusual about my relationship with my wife and people in general. Often, I have been asked by individuals wondering what my secret is, “Kennedy, do you know what you’re doing?”…

A short time ago, in Brigham Young University Studies, I published an article about Japanese and English poetry; I ended it with the statement that poetry in both languages carries the hallmark “Made on Earth…

Corn grows in my father’s backyard garden 
in ten green files, each row a week taller, 
the tallest now past two months, nearly ripe. 
The years he’s planted gardens range beyond
the year that I was born in early spring, 
but memory recalls three different plots 

Not many years after Voltaire delivered himself of his much maligned observation that history is a pack of tricks we play on the dead, historians began to attempt to prove him wrong by telling us…

Dudley Dean is a forty-year-old befuddled jack-Mormon professor of English. Wife Hannah has left him and married one of his teaching colleagues—a maudlin, oversexed boor named Ashton—and his devout Mormon mother has just died. Dudley…

Readers of Dialogue who have been searching for a sympathetic, read able, and reasonably accurate introduction to Mormonism to present to their non-Mormon friends may well consider Carl Carmer’s The Farm Boy and the Angel.…

So Stevenson be glad—
Whatever your life was, your dreams were,
I do not know and you cannot care,
Fallen like a stone on that hot street.

Adlai Stevenson died in Palermo. 
In the airport. His face was pasted 
On the newsstand, bobbing in and out among 
Jabbering Sicilians, their sweaty hands 
Sticky with orange soda pop, 

His eyes milky, intensely blue, 
Fasten totally upon the life that was living 
From 1884 to nineteen hundred and twelve; 
Not seeing the life that has been his dying since, 
Though he has braked the crawl toward surcease 
More courageously successful than we (even I, the Valley’s Poet)
In our existing.