DiaBLOGue

Sparrow Hunter

At fourteen, when I could legally hunt game birds, I became a serious hunter. I hunted ducks and pheasants, but also rabbits, crows, rock chucks, hawks, owls, eagles, coyotes, rodents, and rattlesnakes. I never killed…

Metaphysics over lunch

English professor and rebel: 
Off campus, our sentences race 
the tabletop, garbed in wit and color. 
By the time food comes, our ideas dance 

On Meditation

I used to run. Fast and furiously, always anxious, always thinking I should be quicker, go farther. I had friends who had run marathons and competed in 10Ks. I envied them and wanted to be like them: longer legs, faster times, thinner limbs. I counted calories and measured miles. I ran, but never liked it, didn’t like the way I beat myself up while I was running—”faster! faster!”—nor the fact that I dreaded the next run before the current one was even done. 

Caught Gull, Plowing

At five, standing at the edge of the field, 
Dad up there on the great green Deere, 
I must have been scared he’d leave. 
He made me an offer: Catch me a seagull 

Companionship

We’d had problems, especially lately: 
Just last week I snapped at him 
and found myself staring into the outraged eyes 
of a former national rugby star, his one fist 

Essay for June 9, 1998

Today is June 9, 1998. I have been forty-three for two days. My father, Robert Wallace Blair, is teaching spring term; he will retire when the term ends after thirty-four years as a linguistics professor…

Clay

On the sill, torsos wrenched out of clay 
still bore the sculptor’s mark, the print 

of cocked thumb and nail. Tortured, vaguely
female, they shamed us. We crowded in,