text:
ON THE SHORES OF WELCOME HOME
ON THE SHORES OF WELCOME HOME

POEMS

BRUCE WEIGL

AMERICAN POETS CONTINUUM SERIES, NO. 175

BOA EDITIONS, LTD.   ROCHESTER, NY   2019
Copyright © 2019 by Bruce Weigl

All rights reserved

Manufactured in the United States of America

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Publications by BOA Editions, Ltd.—a not-for-profit corporation under section 501 (c) (3) of the United States Internal Revenue Code—are made possible with funds from a variety of sources, including public funds from the Literature Program of the National Endowment for the Arts; the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency; and the County of Monroe, NY. Private funding sources include the Max and Marian Farash Charitable Foundation; the Mary S. Mulligan Charitable Trust; the Rochester Area Community Foundation; the Ames-Amzalak Memorial Trust in memory of Henry Ames, Semon Amzalak, and Dan Amzalak; the LGBT Fund of Greater Rochester; and contributions from many individuals nationwide. See Colophon on page 100 for special individual acknowledgments.

Cover Design: Sandy Knight

Interior Design and Composition: Richard Foerster

BOA Logo: Mirko

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Weigl, Bruce, 1949– , author.

Title: The shores of welcome home : poems / Bruce Weigl.

Description: First edition. | Rochester, NY : BOA Editions, Ltd., 2019. | Series: American poets continuum series ; no. 175

Identifiers: LCCN 2019019107 | ISBN 9781942683896 (pbk.)

Subjects: LCSH: Vietnam War, 1961–1975—Psychological aspects—Poetry. | Veterans—Mental health—United States—Poetry. | Older veterans—United States—Poetry. | War poetry, American.

Classification: LCC PS3573.E3835 A6 2019 | DDC 811/.54—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019019107

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 _A. Poulin, Jr., Founder (1938–1996)_
_For Sonny Bunzo and Mila Vy_
CONTENTS

_Part One_

The Elephant Gift in the Room

You Can Hide

Painted Box Buried in the Yard

Grace Being Saved

Anecdote of the Impresario of My Brain

Some Stages of the Mayfly

Against Poetry

River of Blood in One Man

Prayer for My Teacher

Against Forgetting (One)

Fragments in Translation from the Vietnamese

Lotus

Reading the River

Ode to Cabeza de Vaca

A Late Corrupted Flash

Not My Brain Talkin'

Words for My Pal Who Is Dead

The Long-Term Consequences of the Convoy Leading to Pegasus in the Fallen World

The World Part II

The Unbearable Weight of a Friend

Act of Contrition

Altarpiece of the Misericordia

Lotus, West Lake, 2010

The Hà Nội Winds Bringing Winter to the Old-World Elegy

The Ineffable as Sad

_Part Two_

On the Shores of Welcome Home

_Part Three_

Making the Conscious Darkness

The Beauty

Bodhisattva Blurred by Lilies in the Garden

My Araby

Village Parable

The Love I Thought Would Save Me

C, F, and G

Modern Paradox Sutra Fragment

Moon Sutra

Love in Space

The Sixty-sixth Year of My Imagining

For Night

Dismantling Bruce Weigl at Gate Number 7

My Father's Money

A Mishap

Sweeping in the Temple

What If I Told You

Oh Denial

For a Friend Whose Son Is in Prison

Not an Elegy for F.

Blue Late Elegy for R.

The Clock on the Tower in Hà Nội

Mr. O's Peach Tree

Her Discontent like Lava Soap Burns in the Eyes

A Small Song for Immigrants

The Failure of Cognitive Therapy on April 26, 2015

For Steven, Boone School, 1956

Song of H.

Kokura Bar

Thinking About the Chinese Poet

My When I Have Fears

Crazy with His Anguish and Dumb with Grief

_Acknowledgments_

_About the Author_

_Colophon_
_Our schemes are so fragile a fire
begins mincing childishly through
the backstreets, through our fingers
and we'll never forget;
the whole world is a library of fire
and we'll never get out of it_...

_—James Tate_
_Against Forgetting (Two)_

_I didn't remember where to start my life_.

_If you could translate the screams of brain cells under duress_

_it would be deafening_ ,

_like a waterfall of nails down the blackboard_.

_I thought of this in the fourth grade_.

_I figured out that words meant exactly what they said, and at the same time_

_meant nothing at all. School_

_was downhill for me_

_from then on_
Part One
THE ELEPHANT GIFT IN THE ROOM

Sun refuses the last nanosecond before night;

stars explode in your cold head—old, nostalgic bombs and rockets, classic mortar rounds—

but no one understands, and no one hears you speak, and no one even sees you

standing there in your sixty-two years, soldier.
YOU CAN HIDE

You can hide behind this

You can hide behind my eyes

You can hide behind the trigger

You can be hurled unnamed through dusty sunlight

And not know anything because a rocket even close

Will do that to you

Go away slim shadows

Open as if in communion but nothing goes away

I walked and I crawled

The ocean crossed me

Asleep in my cocoon but nothing goes away

Waiting like it does always

Something that gets ahead of you somehow

As in an ambush a beautiful word

On the mouth to say.
PAINTED BOX BURIED IN THE YARD

The yard of our sadness where we buried

things after some man hung himself in the

basement of our apartment. Circa five years old

who found him was named me, but the I didn't

know drunk and fucking around from hung

right off to death and it was a long time before

I put that particular two and two

together, and saw him in my mind's movie

more than once, swinging there, pale as our autumn

sky. Sometimes you need a great notion to

survive even one single moment

of your life; someone pushed to the

edge, and then see what happens.
GRACE BEING SAVED

Grace being saved, even between thunder raps

under the storm a certain light

bends itself through clouds and around trees

and you can find it there lighting up

like a catastrophe then gone

as a kiss, never to come back.

Or there's my other face in the mirror

in the Ascending Dragon Hotel, Tông Đản

Street, though I don't know who he is,

nor do I remember such elegance, but what

you see in the mirror is nothing, and is not

nothing, the way time wanted me that day;

the way time came with its voracious, drooling

jaws and snatched the light away.
ANECDOTE OF THE IMPRESARIO OF MY BRAIN

The dead people I see are not happy when they know that I see them. They frown a strange death mask at me from passing motorcars, or in the dimly-lit

hallways of unfamiliar buildings like the one where the keeper of records presides.

He knows everything about us, but he doesn't know that he is dead. When I ask for my records, he refuses to look at me so that the darkness gathered in the corners

begins to reel outward, exactly like a tiny tornado.

If you've seen that then you know what the fuck I'm talking about, climbing the ladder,

and the rigmarole of other places where the sidewalks are poured in a different paradigm

than ours, and the rivers are not interrogated about their direction so flow the bright waters

straight through you is how it feels later on, back in custody.
SOME STAGES OF THE MAYFLY

You don't have to write anything down; you don't

have to say anything at all or even

gesture with your head or your body or

your face or your eyes or your hands. You don't

have to make a sound and still someone will

understand you the way a mayfly

understands at a precisely particular

angle of light that it's time to emerge

from the nymph and swim towards the light and

towards great wings that burst through to dry on the

gleaming surface, then carry them off

into dark trees from which they parachute

on thin wings that same night to die.
AGAINST POETRY

I didn't want to hurt the earth

so when I weeded the garden

I spoke to the plants like souls

the way the teacher taught me

and never mind the centuries of suffering

the razor sting of words

that won't mean anything

except to tell one doom or another

and not even your own. The night

delivered to the stars

matters; the distance the light must travel

painfully long but coming for you.
RIVER OF BLOOD IN ONE MAN

Dressing up for your guests for example,

the blood so red when it comes from where it's not.

So red on the paper, and so much

that you stand up, fixing your trousers, and walk

out into the formality of nothing

but life and death encounters with strangers,

and weirdness in your correspondence too;

please, let me have my iron mask; the blood

that's crimson's not as bad as the darker

red that comes from deep inside, river that it is,

beautiful meanness of the heart that keeps beating,

empty in its cage of love.
PRAYER FOR MY TEACHER

A sky in my head tonight,

only I don't know if it's a star

or not, I don't know what

it wants, like the wind surely

must want something the way

it calls me through the trees

and across the still green lawns

of my quiet neighbors like someone

hissing a curse or a last

blessing before hell, but what

I found inside the dark

this time was a wave of something

warm that almost seemed to,

or did, hold me there

for a long enough second

so I could see the brightly

sonic outline of everything

that wasn't there, and be freed

by that and made happy for you,

so here is the smile of my mouth,

only half, as it should be, and here

is the smile of my eyes I hope

you see some light in, and here

is the smile of my fingers held up

in the shape of the lotus, that heals

and that satisfies,

but I don't know why peace

is still too much to ask for,

or why the landscape must

include the inconsequential

corpses from both sides,

as if posed for some demonic

puppet show for the generals

and their overweight children

to enjoy in the imperial garden.

The flaws of our reason have finally

shivered into shifting plates

of what we knew all along,

come to pass.
AGAINST FORGETTING (ONE)

Startling when the brain can see the mind, accomplished

only with the most precise surgery, for example,

performed by beings whose hands are made of a kind

of glass that you are not allowed to touch.

You are not allowed to ask certain questions afterwards;

questions about the paradigm are especially discouraged,

and never appreciated. They maintain security at all times.

I want to ask if I am the same, or different,

but it is not allowed, and even before

the thought completes itself and the words are not yet

on my lips, someone is tsking to me inside of my head,

wagging their finger like a mother or a drug cop in the rearview

mirror of my horizon. One misstep

in this situation could bring trouble, ask just about any

dead soul still spinning around in circles,

wondering, What the fuck was that?
FRAGMENTS IN TRANSLATION FROM THE VIETNAMESE

The presence of natives is beneficial

to our overall splendor,

whenever that happens.

Someone is waiting under a dim light in a dark room;

he is not difficult to reach,

or as far away as he seems.

Do not touch the teacher.

Leave the temple fragments alone.

Make a Buddha with three stones.

You will look through an alleyway

that appears in the jungle

and seems to go on and on,

your glass shoes slipping

as you try to keep up.

Yet who wants to remember all of the dead

is important

to the dead.

You think you feel the world

inside of you,

a soaking rain on the bamboo roof

that mimics the sound of loss.
LOTUS

There is a certain slant of light

just at the rising of the sun

above the lake that cuts across

the lotus and wakes slowly the blossoms until

the blossoms become the lake like a white

and green jungle.

Sometimes it is impossible

to move. Love is like that, the way

the beauty makes it impossible

even to breathe, drowning

in the heartbreak

of blossoms, tangled in the roots

of a thing that can't be.
READING THE RIVER

Death plus limestone river

equals swirling dervish currents

night bank grass wings

just inside of this world

breath you could say
ODE TO CABEZA DE VACA

What good is it to see for miles and miles,

the tired, lonely explorer said to the fat queen,

prostrate by her feet, still not allowed to go home.

I am dying of omens that no one recognizes

or understands, and I am under anesthesia

again, veil over my brain, so I may

be wrong or confused about even simple things.

It's not what you think, the other side, not a dream

or a movie, but more a sifting diamond sand

washed up with the bodies on the shore of every

welcome home so don't tread there; don't be anything at all.
A LATE CORRUPTED FLASH

I couldn't think of anything to do;

I was out among the traffic in the street,

but didn't make my way, my view

was blocked, and nothing left but new defeats,

and then I stepped into a line of trees

I know I'd seen before, the sulfur smell,

the bullets whizzing past like wild bees.

I wasn't where I thought I was. I fell

again, through something damp, like air, then back

inside the traffic jam I knew was caused

by me, my drifting as I do, my lack

of self-control, to know just when to pause

before I cross into that other place

that somehow always stays inside my soul.

I wish that I could say a simple grace

would be enough to make me whole,

but I was lost inside the river so I

didn't move, and thought I'd wait it out,

the night, in all its splendor, the lies

that let me stand there, as if without a doubt.

In the morning someone came, or no one came at all.

I knew somehow, I'd wake and be alive,

but never be the same again, a fall

from grace so hard and fast, I can't aide.

That night I died, and it was not like dreaming

although my heart kept beating, my brain a whir.

The world outside my mind stopped meaning

anything at all, so you can't see me through the blur

of monumental metaphors the doctors rig

like precious metal crosses

that hang a name around my latest jig,

no peace, and never mind the other losses.
NOT MY BRAIN TALKIN'

This is not my brain talking. This is a brain with a shunt talking and trying to write something down. I thought there was a music in

the words, no matter how you laid them out across the page; across your arm the needle runs pink tracks to red. If I love you I would

cook your medicine, melt the pills the doctors dole. I would sweetly tie the rubber hose to swell the vein with

blood. I would do it all

and love you even more, and all the things that can go wrong with promises

is the name of this matinée,

but I'm here for the duration and nobody gets left behind.
WORDS FOR MY PAL WHO IS DEAD

Someone hands me a cell phone in the soupy dark and somehow, I know that the phone's been rigged to allow me to speak to the dead,

and you are the first one I call.

Your voice is the same only lighter and unconnected to the things of this poor world, yet I could feel the weight of you

through space, the body you had been but are no more. I could see the spirit of you, spiraling out of the phone like smoke from a cigarette, in the cold.

So, what the hell was that to come into my sleep, and then just leave? We fish different waters now is all.
THE LONG-TERM CONSEQUENCES OF THE CONVOY LEADING TO PEGASUS IN THE FALLEN WORLD

Or when I packed myself up for the loony bin

I didn't know it was the loony bin at the time

was my lousy problem and I blame myself

for that and I ended up in a field I know

is littered with mines because I've seen it before

beside a river named Cà Lu if my brain allows

me just one memory one sane moment like the one

the photon bright flashes the doctors held inches from

my face brought back a radiant time that no one in

the room could know but me like the field of mines

I had stood next to on the LZ, and walked around

more than once and watched a parachute of something

drift off target and land there almost softly the lights

the doctors flashed in my eyes and the saline they pumped

into my veins and the thirty hours without sleep

brought that morning right back into the room and that

morning became the day of the longest night of

the seven dead in a single bunker from artillery

fired across an invisible line in the dark night of small

arms fire along the river and movement in the

high grass voices radio noise sometimes even their music

night of the separation of my soul from my body

such a violent tearing I couldn't even feel.
THE WORLD PART II

Dogwood blossoms fill

the air like snow and dust

the branches of the trees

and you have to close your eyes

to see the luminous shapes

and forms and don't say Save me

to just any god.

We used to have a compass

in our heads when the sun

did not reach through the triple

canopy and at night no stars.

Still, your body feels

where the river is,

where the crossroads disappear

into walls of green bamboo.

Now, I don't know where I am,

or why I brought you here

or what I had in mind,

but I'll give you my hand to take.

I'll reach through this unfolding.
THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF A FRIEND

In translation I would say

_I sit on top of the dresser_.

_The rice is not quite ready to harvest_.

_The river changes direction_

_like our flag in the wind_.

_Everything changes_

_continuously like the sky_ ,

_except my heart_

_stays the same dark_

_on the beach of an island_ ;

_I don't know if I died there_

_but I know I am nothing without you_ ,

_and that in certain light_

_we share a life together_ ,

_unimaginable as skin on skin_.
ACT OF CONTRITION

Plaintive birdsong

does not ease my brain

from its spinning

ache that won't allow me to live

except for birds.

I call my backyard a flyway.

Through time I watch them beat

and hear them even in my sleep

call out to each of us

something more human

than you might expect.

It isn't god that I'm thinking about

but something like a god.
ALTARPIECE OF THE MISERICORDIA

One man's face is completely

without features; another

wears a black hood over his

face, his body hunched away.

Eight others pray under the

wings of the solemn, holy

mother of god, yet it's an

atmospheric light that pulls

you deep inside the misery;

it's what the painter didn't paint

that lets you see what kind of

light that suffering can be,

the white hot burning up of

everything you thought you could

believe, holy father, son, and ghost.
LOTUS, WEST LAKE, 2010

The lotus has spread so far and are so thick

in the southern shallows of the lake

that it's impossible for the small round boat

the lotus gatherer paddles to move any further

so, she is frozen there as on a Chinese vase.

I am watching this in what feels like a dream

that won't let me wake up. She paddles, barely moving,

and below the surface she slices through the stems,

so soon her boat is filled and overflowing. I am watching this

through an evening mist that shimmers in my memory.

And then she's gone, but not the way the light is gone,

and more the way the darkness comes to take its place.

I thought the light was everlasting.

I thought she would come for the lotus again and again,

but things end; things fall apart from their luminous insides,

and she disappeared into the exact center of the sun

going down hard and slow beyond the lake.

Before it's light, I'm in my bed awake,

I hear the women calling out the names

of what they sell, before the traffic noise

will drown them out. _Hoa sen_ a voice calls out,

but only once then lost

inside a world that isn't there.
THE HÀ NỘI WINDS BRINGING WINTER TO THE OLD-WORLD ELEGY

The soon to be bare winter branches

don't exactly tremble—that's a human thing—

but they move in the wind of my waiting

in what looks like the shiver that love brings

to your neurons, right down to the cells

who are happy for some company, after all.

I could sit out here all day and watch the world

leave us behind, and not have a single regret

except for not living even harder and faster

than I did, giving up to immutable green space

my body, and then later, my soul down by the river

whose name I may not utter, please

don't make me tell you what happened there, the bare

branches are enough in their trembling like a shiver

to say all that needs to be said. The room I'm in

is getting smaller, with every faded moment's life,

and we know what that means. Your heart may beat

in time with the umbrella's flapping in patio wind,

but it doesn't mean you belong anywhere;

it doesn't mean you're connected to anything that could save you

or pull you back into the flock of care we imagine. No.
THE INEFFABLE AS SAD

You want to be sad?

I'll show you something

sad: the woman loved the man

so much

even under foreign

skies that she memorized

his long list of pills

for the dying, and set them

in his open hand

in the morning

and at every night.
Part Two
ON THE SHORES OF WELCOME HOME

I

I want to sing an old man's song,

the evening's blue gray light just gone.

I want to find the immorality

of our disinterest;

it's our business

to know the geography

of the countries

we bring misery.

First there is the flesh

or the fleshy insides of

a thing or two

coming to the surface

in the flooded backyards; brother

do you know how it feels

not to have

enough food or water

for even your own angels

who float above the trailer park's

cold descent,

what it means to sleep

in bone numbing pain

that comes from living a bottomless life

where even death cannot be afforded,

so far beyond a blue relief?

*

The moral center's out of whack.

It may not find

its own way back

so the befuddled torturer

imagines his late dinner,

and the flesh of a single fat white larva

is sucked down the throat of a starving

man. Don't be befuddled too. Don't

pretend there's nothing to believe in

like a cascade of flowers

thrown into the mass graves

to try and bear the smell away.

Pitch. Ash. Sand of bones

release me.

I shiver in my hot bed

at the mention of your name.

*

During moments of mortal fear and terror

in the kingdom of needs

a clarity moves across your landscape

so that suddenly everything appears bright,

and in a stupor of amazement you see

what had been there all along.

But don't mourn on me,

mourn on your own selves.

Flesh of chaos. Flesh of green jungle,

rapid eye movement, rockets, mortar rounds,

voices from the bush at night, crippling,

antagonistic fear

reeling outward through the years

like a sharp wire. Sometimes there's

not even time to die. Trip flare light

trapped on the rain beyond all reason.

*

Like a virus, you can bring another country

home with you and not even know.

A country can take you so far away, you will never come back. Brother

can you spare me a rhyme? There used to be a greater kindness;

there used to be a thing you could feel inside that binds us,

the holy sameness that we are.

Flesh of men who sit on thrones

and spend the lives of others like dollars. Night

is not safe anymore,

and the violated name our times.

Flesh of the savior, not in the host.

Flesh of the ones who took with their hands

what they had no right to own.

II

They sell rivets that fail. They own companies

that reap, after a cheap sowing of the young and the helpless,

a great pile of money so high you could never spend it all.

At the bottom of this hill

people pick through a garbage pit for pieces of fruit or bread.

You can't ask

Why don't you care or

Why don't you help?

of the people who own the war

the way people own a Coca Cola plant

or a car dealership; they will look at you

like you don't understand and turn back

to their conversations with minor officials.

III

Some cops kill. No big deal. They don't know how we feel,

how even when our hearts are shredded like lace

there's no place we can hide.

I don't care what you say; I don't hear what you pray;

it's just your own dismay at the dying gods

and the churches turned to malls,

and the long and hard fall

through a mountain desert

like the shape of smoke from far away.

This is why the dead must be burned, brother,

and why some things cannot be undone,

some wiring in the chemical brain

that can never be rewired again

so you are set adrift

in the world of not undoing,

like the la-de-da damaged boy. It means

you reap what you sow.

It means a galaxy of

everything you've ever

done or seen done wrong and

said nothing

trails behind you like the tail of a comet,

all ice and dark debris,

and we think that

something like angels

will come for us in the end,

and carry us away. I love

the lie that god is; father

forgive me because there is no grace,

only separation, a kind of deviation

from the usual path

but not a wrath you'll ever grasp

even when you see it happen

right before your eyes; I assure you,

only peaceful thoughts, discerning,

yet still there's something inside burning

and I'm on a ride with the hallelujah science.

IV

We don't know how someone could kill that way,

the children in their classrooms safe at school.

Our world is named guns, and bullets spray

free as our American minds are to fool

ourselves that we are good; there's nothing left to do.

Dead children wait in their classrooms

for their mothers and fathers to view

their small bodies; the doom

it is to see your child dead and blue as frozen snow;

you'll never be the same again; you'll never see

the world in gracious light; you'll never know

the quiet peace of simply how to be.

We want to give our lives to bring them back

although I know how foolish sacrifice may sound;

words can say but words can never be,

or stop the bullets, not even a single round

from cutting through the air, until they almost see

the flesh and bone they blast away.

You have to know the fear of how it feels

before you understand.

V

Immigrants, misfits, ne'er-do-wells for benefits,

Croats, Serbs, Polacks, Slovenians,

it's what we mean

when we say where we're from;

summer, and all we have is each other. Brother

do you know how it feels

to have so much of nothing

that you don't even know?

Don't preach to me, don't teach me any remedies

to restore the dualities

in my brain. I know what to do with my ghosts

once the party is over,

and I know how to set an ambush and some claymores

if the need arises; I'm full of surprises,

I like your horizons so full of hope that was never there,

just dope they gave us to forget and not scare

the good citizens around us who may not be aware

of the damage war does to boys and to girls

hurled so far away from love.

VI

_The blade of Eros in the form of a message from the spirit of someone I had watched cross over but who seems to want to stick around blues; it goes something like this:_

Sometimes I do the right thing, and sometimes I don't,

even at this age and

what the hell is that all about?

Love is a ribbon that cuts,

and I have crossed some fleshy bridges, brother,

that gave way to an endless green fall.

I am still falling, father,

mother of the cool sheets,

so, no need for you to wait for me

at the screen door

in just a poor kitchen light any longer,

a ghost without his hauntings.

What went wrong is not a question you should ask people like me.

What went wrong is the name of a way of being,

an evolution towards the entropic and the nuclear,

a requiem for the bad angels, clogging the highway,

a towering catastrophe of lies; opium dreams

of the jungle green spider,

its legs around my face,

a woman who comes in the dark;

oh space, the dream said, don't worry time.

You can lose track of who you are;

you can say all the old Jesus stuff to yourself in the dark,

but if those black wings have your name on them

you might as well saddle-up

my First Sergeant said more than a few times,

and you may think that this is my news, so

what the fuck,

but I accuse us all of the worst crimes. I love us all

for the worst crimes. There is no pure humanity;

it's a metaphor that doesn't work, a dream without a center

you can't wake from.

I'm not talking about myself

but about the map of our stupid failures,

because I don't know where to turn anymore,

and all I want is to get out of this, once and for all.

All I want is a peaceful mind, and a spirit who

longs to stay close,

and some great arms that wrap around me,

and hold me still for a moment of something

that feels exactly like love,

the long night of disciplined emotion

over, the godliness to the nth degree

a cool mist, drowning us in peace.
Part Three
MAKING THE CONSCIOUS DARKNESS

Dancing to Gypsy

banjo music and vodka,

and circa 1985

was the state of my mind,

Rosalina turning wild

circles just inches from my body.

This was after a long time of being lost

in a post-war haze I tried

to drown and smoke away forever.

Every object in the room

was moving to the music

somehow, to our bodies

swaying in the dark basement

bar, and when I tried to spin

like Rosalina

I could feel the world beg

to move, a great weight of blue

light flashing through dark space so

I felt connected to something,

the way your heart is

connected to your brain;

the way a single strand of memory can save you

from cold and loneliness, even if

you want to die. Be grateful,

the wind says at last.
THE BEAUTY

On Plummer Mountain, West Virginia,

the elder Mr. Plummer sits beside me on a couch

someone had dragged outside to the front porch—oh light

of brilliant ideas—so you can sit there

and stare out at the pasture

that was there

instead of what we call a yard, acres

rolling off as far as we could see,

which wasn't that far

because of the hills that cut

our line of vision,

so the bull

could come and then

could disappear

even before the sun went down,

even before the elder Mr. Plummer

said a single word

for a long stretch of time on the porch,

watching the bull come and then

move across our minds you could say.

You could say that was one of those

times of crossing over,

the way the world telescoped

down into a finely focused

moment of nothing happening at all;

the peace in that, the beauty.
BODHISATTVA BLURRED BY LILIES IN THE GARDEN

Let me tell you how the life inside a lie

feels, the immense jungle green

shattered by ambush in the evening.

Let me execute myself in peace, dear

strangers whom I love. The turning wheel

is a kind of lie too, unimaginable

photographs of disasters that shatter

into tiny pieces when you try to pick them up, like history.

The world doesn't end or even

notice any of this lush blue orbit

flashing past, let alone my problems, or

yours, the Bodhisattva

blurred by lilies in the garden.
MY ARABY

"Dear God" I began my letter when I was five years old. I could read and write thanks to my father who never graduated high school but who taught me how to live in the world like a man, how to read a box score and score a game by myself, and how to throw a punch. I was writing to God to save myself from sins I thought so horrible, Christ himself would put an end to my miserable life.

I put my stupid faith in the mailbox on the corner where I'd once frozen my lips to the side, hiding from a police car in the winter night.

There was nothing left but chances by then. The arcade was closing down, its lights blinking off, one by one. Better not to ask why things happen, a waste among some wider wastes; nothing left, except what's left.
VILLAGE PARABLE

When the green begins to go to yellow

you can hear the locust chirp

all through the long evening, the sun

setting just now, the sky

streaked with red,

and every spirit in its place.

I could find a world there. I could find

a way to live inside the village life;

tend my garden, care for my children's

children who play in the dusty courtyard, lose

the last ribbons of myself and be free.
THE LOVE I THOUGHT WOULD SAVE ME

No possibility of relief of any kind,

the debris of debris

tumbling haphazard through the metaphysical air;

at least we can put that on the fucking table

so there's no misunderstanding, no possibility of being

there and somewhere else at the same time

is what the doubters say. They say a lot of things

to discount the world layered upon ours

almost invisibly

as spider threads off limestone creek beds,

as glory, which is alright with me.
C, F, AND G

I laughed when she said it was _only_ a dream because

she hadn't been with me on that

particular hell ride through some not so recent

events between the sheets that were perfectly

tangled up in blood. She said

it was _just_ my imagination,

as if that was not enough

and I did not realize the momentum I had gained

would become such an unstoppable force

towards its beautiful ending: the fireworks,

the chants of monks, the rock and roll,

all suspended in my mind in a single

moment of an otherwise uneventful morning.

The great machinery of stars

shifts in the black sky, but I know it's only

my brain again, trying to heal itself,

three chords

and the words of heaven,

all you need of love.
MODERN PARADOX SUTRA FRAGMENT

A sex offender father broke the jaw

of his four-year-old cerebral

palsy son in an unspecified act

of rage. Change yourself the teacher tells me

again, and again because you can't change anyone else.

Knowing things ensures heartbreak. Not knowing

is worse. Change yourself the teacher says;

make more room for the suffering of others

is what he means. Make more room and then let it

flow through you. Let the broken-jawed little

palsied boy who couldn't even understand

his own poor life flow through you, and let his

blurred screams flow through you and not through you

to feel them deeply and then to let them go.
MOON SUTRA

You can't fool me you flesh-eating moon. I've bared

myself to your light more than a few good

times and felt a jarring jolt of something—

moon, or what pulls the moon, or what the moon

pulls to slow itself down—and then I said

is that all you get for your fucking money.
LOVE IN SPACE

The two maples are dying but

they won't admit it so no,

the bare winter branches don't make them

look the same as every other tree.

When we turn towards winter

there is a particular gray light that comes

to inhabit the late afternoons and

evenings. It may or may not be

dangerous to be caught in that light.

It happened to me once,

I was transported by some eyes

so far away I could barely hold on.

If you resist, you're pulled further in.

Watch the miles disappear, watch the time

mean nothing,

watch the love grow and tangle, and then grow again.
THE SIXTY-SIXTH YEAR OF MY IMAGINING

The frozen air comes early to the year,

surprising everyone with blinding snow,

the leaves still in the trees, where ghosts appear

and rattle in the branches beyond hope.

Some birds are trapped, they don't know how to leave

now that the landscape has completely changed;

it isn't that they feel that they should grieve

but more that things are suddenly deranged.

How many times can we be fooled when

every year it is the same, the light

pulls back so dark can take its place, pretending

everything will be alright.

Inside the coldest night our sleep is warm,

that's how we finally die inside the storm.
FOR NIGHT

I don't think it's my place to breathe, Mr. Night.

I don't think it's my place to say any fucking

howdy-do to anyone in this polite

asylum of a world, not any more,

not after everything that's happened to you

and to me. There used to be a silence

you could count on, like a thick rope dropped

down from heaven, but the voices have come back

from the dead, even if the bodies haven't,

and they fill my head with their last words

which are not always Goodbyes, but sometimes

a plea for more light, or for a forgiveness

impossible to give them. I have known you more

than once in foreign dark, where you finally

spoke to me, your code a shiver

through my body, showing me the way,

and you were never wrong as long

as I gave myself to you completely,

utterly, in the rarefied jungle air,

oh night who still attends me like a worried

mother, or like a lover with a cause, don't you see.
DISMANTLING BRUCE WEIGL AT GATE NUMBER 7

I was plotting a tasteful escape

from a gathering of men

(I wrote "snakes" at first)

I'd found myself somehow

tangled among in a small room

I had followed a misunderstanding to;

through some alleyways,

across from Lenin Park I was,

"Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea"

strangely on someone's radio;

I counted the bodies of men

around me in the dark. I hardly

barely bowed and smiled as if

I was angry. Through the only door

my eyes found a way in the dark

but I waited for what would happen

next, unafraid of death or of

anything else, a tic in my neuro-pathways,

an addiction always to what's next

as if the moment didn't matter.

Two men carried in a heavy urn

covered with Chinese characters,

sealed with wax and a bright red cloth,

another man brought in a tray,

a small white cup for each of us,

and I watched the door and all other

possible openings unhinge themselves.

What happens next is nothing we

should speak of indelicately,

ancient eyes or not through the curtains

that were not curtains at all,

I recall, now, back at the gate,

exactly one thousand years

after it was raised, in defiance.
MY FATHER'S MONEY

No mathematician, still,

I knew my fractions and shined

in class that term with answers.

When you're poor you learn the fractions

early, how half of nothing

is somehow even less,

how to cut the hungry times

into slices of forgetting,

and the long nights into dreams

not fractured by the wild family life.

I asked my father once,

in nineteen fifty something,

for three lousy dollars

to buy some baseball spikes

from a kid down the block.

I know now what I didn't know then,

that when he said he didn't have the money,

he meant it, and that three dollars

was a lot in our house,

poor as cabbage soup,

but all of us close together

near the coal stove in the dark,

near the coal stove, in the dark.
A MISHAP

The blank of blank

the science of dying

the black cat changing rooms

caught for a moment

in some brilliant sun

the pathology of fear

one LA car

slamming into another

is not like slow motion

and some lost things

can never be recovered but

thank Ra for the light

that let us see so clearly

the unreal aftermath

thank the kind Egyptian man

who owned a garage nearby

witness to the collision

who helped me to his limousine

then delivered me

to the door of salvation by air

the everything I don't remember

the desert wind

dry as a breath

in the battle of love

night flight

shock tight now shoulders and neck

and an uneasy dreaminess

come over me like warm waves

of whatever it is that keeps changing

from black to white inside my brain

Cleveland two a.m.

sick and dizzy at the VA

like a drunk or a junkie nodding

my brain a whirr

of unidentifiable pictures

of a background from someone else's life.

What is this, I ask the light,

and the light blasts down on me

something I could feel through my spine

and through my groin,

a sharp chain pulled through me

then something flying out of my body

Oh thing

flying out of my body

I don't worship you

I worship no man or woman or no god or myth or story

I have stood in a sunlit green valley

filled with hidden terrors and sudden death

yet lost myself

in the way through leaves and branches

the light spears rained down sometimes

or maybe that's my rattled brain

because I don't remember everything

the crash a wild blur and boom three times

like mortar rounds

the way that they come down

so you can hear them

is where my brain was sent

in one hard second of contact

metal on plastic on metal

the force at fifty MPH

like a storm inside your skull and neck

that whipped me

I don't know what it is that stays with me

I escaped some paperwork and the cops

and left the scene

there on the corner of Lincoln Blvd

the Mexican woman thanking Jesus,

her praying hands in the air like black birds,

the stunned driver unable to comprehend the loss,

the Egyptian man, who read my eyes somehow

and got me out of there,

a circle I keep finding

when I try to find my way.
SWEEPING IN THE TEMPLE

The infidelity of granite

blocks they laid two thousand years ago is

of particular interest to the

locals, and nothing was enough to feed

the machine in those days. Nothing meant

nothing, and the wind said not a single

word, even in the tree limbs' bare existence.

The other side of the story would be

different of course. This is just something

to let roll through you, and then to let go.

Centuries have passed since I began here.
WHAT IF I TOLD YOU

that the sky was such a perfect pale blue

of an Easter egg or of

the beginnings of a bruise

around the eyes

that it would not release me

to my worldly duties. Meanwhile

the Chinese elm calls

its evening birds into their places

high in the leafy branches

where things are safe for now.

All afternoon long I wait, drowsing,

for the cardinals to return

who finally arrive together,

and make a kind of sense

that rocks you back.

Still, if you add it all up

it comes to zero; forget

the billion plus stars;

when their light reaches you

they are already dead.
OH DENIAL

See how it goes

all around the roses

what I had in mind

never mind

the red wing black bird

I murdered

said to the wind

who did not care

So solitary in our own madness

that even an encore

couldn't keep us

from leaving the burning theater

the mass not yet at its liturgy

Oh psychedelic

to coin a phrase

Oh, so American the denial

the tenderness of our escapes

from the hardened

light-reflecting real

world, if only for a moment.
FOR A FRIEND WHOSE SON IS IN PRISON

What do you do with the guilty, when they are one of your own? What do you do with a son whose one bad judgment cost him so much time? Only love will do in such cases; anything else pales in the face of such tragedy.

How well we know words and look what it's gotten us. How well we know the lie of words that can make a good thing happen, just when you need it, and then mean nothing at all.

When you told me about your long drive on visitor's day, I could see you so clearly that I was

stunned, riding there beside you for a moment, and I could feel the weight of your sadness like a barge, trapped in dark water, going nowhere but in circles, to the bottom.
NOT AN ELEGY FOR F.

The wounded cardinal chick, caught out in the open,

the frantic parents darting in and out as if to illustrate some pattern

that seems too complicated.

It doesn't help,

and all the racket has called the cats,

whom I love and had named after my grandfather

and his sweet brother from the old country. Don't say

There was

nothing I could do, or, That's nature.

Don't say

Holes in the sky

instead of stars above your grave. Say Holes in the sky, instead of stars, above your grave.
BLUE LATE ELEGY FOR R.

When my dead friend comes to visit me, I am grateful, and I say so. He reminds me of the beautifully crazy things we did together over our fifty-five years, all the wonderful, wasted time, and I don't know why he must always leave so quickly, as if something called him or pulled him back into that other—what is it—realm? but while he is here, I can feel him like the brother that he is to me, and smell the scent of him strong as all of memory, and hear the river of his voice not exactly call to me, but say something that only makes sense deep in our lives together, a confirmation that it's him, like the stone I keep in my pocket for those times when I don't know where I am. The stone is always in the world. The wheel turns and new graves are dug, new houses built. The wheel turns and someone else is gone and no matter how many times these wisps of him come into my room to sit with me and smoke, he is still gone so long without the living touch from those who no longer wait. They no longer wait for him.
THE CLOCK ON THE TOWER IN HÀ NỘI

It wasn't a question of romance

but more a sudden thunder storm

with rain so heavy we were all driven

from our chairs outside the café

and then crowded together

inside the small shop, waiting

for the rain to stop. A woman

sat on the counter, and some boys

and small girls already napped on their mothers' laps.

There was no panic or agitation;

there was some talk about the weather,

and how strange it had been,

and when the rain slowed but didn't stop

I stepped outside to see the sky.

It was a practical matter

when the woman lifted her umbrella

and stood on her toes to reach

above my head to keep me dry.

I thanked her, and asked if I could hold the umbrella

and she nodded and smiled. Oh

I held it there until the rain stopped,

and our eyes on the other's eyes

took us somewhere else for a moment,

drawn out like specks of dust in sunlight.

I pulled it closed and shook the water off

before I handed it back to her. In Vietnamese

I thanked her, and I bowed. In Vietnamese

she said that I was welcome and we

both had somewhere else to go

so turned away into our only crowd, day

beating like a drum, like the clock

on a tower in Hà Nội.
MR. O.'S PEACH TREE

The peach tree's all but one blossom

killed by a late frost

so there will only be one peach

that I wish for someone else's mouth,

the she of the years,

to suckle the sweet juice

and then kiss me long and slow

because we have only our moments,

and I think the trees will remember me

although it's a problem

of the amygdala

as it turns out,

a switch turned on and then broken,

so fear leaks in. There is no sense

to wish it hadn't. You step into each new

moment of your life

as if you knew where you were going,

and the annoying sun,

without which we would be dead,

floods the speeding car you ride in

towards salvation, a single peach blossom

that survived a late frost

and went on with its peachy life.
HER DISCONTENT LIKE LAVA SOAP BURNS IN THE EYES

Who do you go to Oh la

She resisted the fire

an ABC of loneliness

Part of the sun fell into her head

At the batting cage

cadence is everything

cadence is birdsong harmony

Bless this hall of fame

or else there's no more river water sit downs

We fail in the blood

is where it fucking happens.

Part of the sun fell into her head.
A SMALL SONG FOR IMMIGRANTS

The immigrants ride bicycles through town.

They blend in now and mostly work behind the scenes

for wages most Americans would never take,

and think they live in paradise. How bad

it must have been to have to run away

from home and family, the poor lined up

along the dust clogged road to nowhere,

their hands held out to passing motorcars

as if someone could help. No one can help

you from the damage to your soul that being

hungry means, that living under bloody rule,

not free to even say the names of someone dead.

The immigrants ride bicycles through town.

They blend in now and mostly work behind the scenes.
THE FAILURE OF COGNITIVE THERAPY ON APRIL 26, 2015

Well, I can bless myself

it just this moment occurred to me

as a passenger

in a partly angry car

zooming towards errands

of a nature unknown to me.

"Bless you" I can say

and the pronoun's reference

is me, the blessing

no less shining.

Isn't this life luscious

and so distant at the same time

so that you never know

how much to take,

or how hard

to press yourself

against the wire boundary

of all of memory;

no thank you Dr. X,

I think I'll pass on certain details,

and let the fragments of memory

continue to have their morbid,

their unorderly charming way with me,

and burst through my head

like tracer rounds

in a moment otherwise given

to peaceful work or quiet meditation.

I know how well you mean,

your compassion

a rising tide of warm water around me,

but you weren't there.

You don't know how we felt.

Kill everything

they told us, kill them all.
FOR STEVEN, BOONE SCHOOL, 1956

The visitors keep coming to the park,

there isn't anything for them to do

but mull around, inquiring where the body

was, after he was done with her.

There's some who knew her from the neighborhood,

the rest are strangers satisfying some other

need, a taste for blood that even pounding

rain can't quite erase, its shadow stained

across the pavement near the swings where children

play; the first to find the body

only six years old, forget the damage

done to him. I knew him in the early

grades; he never seemed the same again,

as if some light was squashed inside

so darkness flooded in. The lives of children

flash so quickly past our knowing

it's all that we can do

to have a moment here and there,

and I wonder how the boy who found the body

turned out, what kind of man he is,

and if he ever grew out of the silence

that had surrounded him from that day forward.

I sat behind him in class. He never said a word again,

and sat alone at recess and at lunch,

but now he's grown, he's old like me,

and if we hear the same bells jangled,

it only means it's time for us to leave.
SONG OF H.

Why do we murder ourselves

and then try to live forever.

At the exact heart of

Shenandoah, Miami,

a peacock crosses the busy street

unconcerned with cars and trucks

who stop or slow down;

one large feather has lost its color

and drags behind

like a bad memory

is where I find myself

because I can never fully

escape the war

and the wars today and tomorrow,

because forty years later

I can close my eyes

and still see what hot metal

does to human flesh,

the someone who died in our arms

for example, or the traffic here

that moves faster and faster

until it's a blur of noisy color,

a perfectly horizontal rainbow

that you can follow

block to block to your bliss,

unless you murder yourself first,

or try to live forever

like you were a star or something,

a galaxy unto yourself,

all the poor soldiers

who didn't come home

barely balanced on my back.

I try to swim them home

on a night river named Cà Lu,

but it's burdened with ambush

so we are driven back to the trees

of our awakening,

but no one says the word

die, although that's what I felt

and I would have given anything,

done anything, robbed or lied, said anything

for one more breathe of jungle air that night,

like the prick of the needle

as it makes a hole

so you can live again.
KOKURA BAR

The bar maid flirts with older men,

veterans of a bitter war;

a few drinks

and everything seems okay,

a few lies and

what's the harm in that?

She makes them smile,

that temporary state of flux

desire brings,

and then something

unexpected

happens in the name of salvation.

Oh, I heard the shots fired,

but my body took me to the floor

until the firing stopped. Flash

and I'm right back home again,

that's how easy it is to get my attention. Flash

and how quickly everything

collapses into a white hole of

what you need to do to stay alive. This

I am guilty of, and I'm sorry if I

frightened you

or if I made you worry that

aching worry grief brings, but

there was nothing I could do.

One small trigger you see,

and I'm all lit up.
THINKING ABOUT THE CHINESE POET

Beautiful half moon

beyond clouds that don't move

except the way

everything moves

away from us,

so I wonder what the

Chinese poet would write,

what he would want to say

against so much darkness,

a black sea seeping in.

I wonder if the Chinese poet

would think it was wise

to open one's self up like this

to the darkness

and invite the darkness in

like a stranger, on a rainy night.

I think he had a different kind of worry—

to get his small boat

home before dark,

to find his flower

waiting for him,

hiding in the rushes

behind her silk fan,

and to thank the river

and the spirits who gather there

in the half moon, beyond clouds.
MY WHEN I HAVE FEARS

Kingdom of loneliness in the

bright sun and cool

mountain air. No human

voices sometimes for days,

the blowing rock

nearly visible through the thinning trees

and the blue expanse of sky,

and you have to be somewhere

at all times is the rule, or you'll have trouble,

and be out of sync with the good citizens

who keep the faith

however just under the surface

where the purely human rage

lingers too, like a wisp of something

wrong in the air, or in the stuttering speech of strangers

whom you wish were in a dream. Look around the room

the Dr. reminds me, to remember where I am,

and sometimes this helps

to reel me back from what I cannot allow myself

to remember. Do you know that fear?

I dream of an emptiness that calls me

but no sirens' call back from the rocks

and instead, a faithful wooing towards grace;

imagine you're looking over my shoulder.

Imagine you're right here

watching me write this down

against all odds

and in the name of beautiful

spirits who never come

except in cups of light you drink from

in the garden, voices all around you

a rushing herd,

so you relinquish,

you let go of everything and fly apart

into atoms of whatever it is

that binds us,

that makes us feel this way.
CRAZY WITH HIS ANGUISH AND DUMB WITH GRIEF

The air above the moving water.

The air above the moving water.

Cool spring air above the moving water.

The river comes from where it goes.

Stand in the deeply moving river long enough

and you can feel what time is, and what time is not.

You can be jolted from one way of seeing

into a wholly other way of strangers crossing over

who don't belong among us,

a conspiracy of the dead you could call them.

You could call them a shroud that moves through the room

like a tiny black cloud and then disappears,

although stranger things have happened.

The air above the moving water is

cool in spring. I believe in a paradise of words,

like the words you find under great rocks in the river,

and the words high in the branches on night wind,

and the words that tell a secret kept for so long

it can never be forgiven. I believe

in the leaves turning up, before the storm

is even in our sight. In a vacuum

there is no sorrow or longing. Everything

they taught us was about living, with nothing

about how to die. The air above

the moving water is cool in the spring.

The wheel turns, and you're back again

to the same place. The less time you have,

the more beautiful everything in the world appears.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I offer my grateful acknowledgment for the support of editors of magazines in which these poems first appeared:

_American Poetry Review_ : "The Hà Nội Winds Bringing Winter to the Old-World Elegy," "Lotus, West Lake, 2010," "Lotus," "The Elephant Gift in the Room," "For Night," and "Crazy with His Anguish and Dumb with Grief";

_Cold Mountain Review_ : "On the Shores of Welcome Home," "The World Part II," and "The Sixty-sixth Year of My Imagining";

_Connotation Press: An On-line Artifact_ : "Bodhisattva Blurred by Lilies in the Garden," "For Night," "What If I Told You," "The Clock on the Tower in Hà Nội," "A Small Song for Immigrants";

_Great River Review_ : "The Beauty" and "The World Part II";

_Irish Literary Times_ : "Grace Being Saved";

_Meat for Tea: The Valley Review_ : "Love in Space";

_Miramar_ : "Against Poetry," "Fragments in Translation from the Vietnamese," "Modern Paradox Sutra Fragment," "Village Parable," and "The Love I Thought Would Save Me";

_Pedestal_ : "A Mishap" and "Song of H.";

_The Rattling Wall_ : "Anecdote of the Impresario of My Brain," "Some Stages of the Mayfly," and "River of Blood in One Man";

_Teaching English in the Two-Year College_ : "The Long-Term Consequences of the Convoy Leading to Pegasus in the Fallen World" and "A Late Corrupted Flash."

"Lotus" also appeared as a North River Books Broadside under its Vietnamese title, "Hoa Sen." Thanks to Ray Amorossi.

I am also grateful to the Lannan Foundation and the Lannan family for their enduring support of my artistic life. Thanks to Reg Gibbons, Kevin Bowen, Nguyễn Bá Chung, Carolyn Forché, Robert Hass, Nguyễn Quang Thiều, Nguyễn Pham Quế Mai, and Xia Lu for their support and their friendship. Thanks finally to my editor Peter Conners for his great eye, and for his true support, and to the staff at BOA Editions, Ltd., for their remarkable professionalism and gentle kindness.

**Dedications:**

"Prayer for My Teacher" is for Nguyễn Bá Chung.

"Fragments in Translation from the Vietnamese" is for Trung Trung Đính.

"On the Shores of Welcome Home" is for Yusef, with gratitude for his poems.

"The Beauty" is for Claudio, whose art inspires me.

"For Night" is for Charles Simic, my teacher.

"Dismantling Bruce Weigl at Gate Number 7" is for Hua Thỉnh, with gratitude for his friendship and support.

"Mishap" is for Shelley, in memorial.

"Oh Denial" is for K.C.

"Her Discontent like Lava Soap Burns in the Eyes" is for J. T., in memorial.

"Thinking of the Chinese Poet" is for Xia Lu.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bruce Weigl previously published _The Abundance of Nothing_ (TriQuarterly Books), one of three finalists for the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry in 2013, a memoir— _The Circle of Hạnh_ (Grove Press, 2000)—as well as more than twenty-five other works of poetry, essays, and translations from the Vietnamese and the Romanian. He lives in Oberlin, Ohio, and in Hà Nội, Việt Nam where he reads, writes, and translates.

BOA EDITIONS, LTD.,
AMERICAN POETS CONTINUUM SERIES

No. 1 | _The Fuhrer Bunker: A Cycle of Poems in Progress_
W. D. Snodgrass

---|---

No. 2 | _She_
M. L. Rosenthal

No. 3 | _Living With Distance_
Ralph J. Mills, Jr.

No. 4 | _Not Just Any Death_
Michael Waters

No. 5 | _That Was Then: New and Selected Poems_
Isabella Gardner

No. 6 | _Things That Happen Where There Aren't Any People_
William Stafford

No. 7 | _The Bridge of Change_ : _Poems 1974–1980_
John Logan

No. 8 | _Signatures_
Joseph Stroud

No. 9 | _People Live Here: Selected Poems 1949–1983_
Louis Simpson

No. 10 | _Yin_
Carolyn Kizer

No. 11 | _Duhamel: Ideas of Order in Little Canada_
Bill Tremblay

No. 12 | _Seeing It Was So_
Anthony Piccione

No. 13 | _Hyam Plutzik_ : _The Collected Poems_

No. 14 | _Good Woman: Poems and a Memoir 1969–1980_
Lucille Clifton

No. 15 | _Next: New Poems_
Lucille Clifton

No. 16 | _Roxa: Voices of the Culver Family_
William B. Patrick

No. 17 | _John Logan: The Collected Poems_

No. 18 | _Isabella Gardner: The Collected Poems_

No. 19 | _The Sunken Lightship_
Peter Makuck

No. 20 | _The City in Which I Love You_
Li-Young Lee

No. 21 | _Quilting: Poems 1987–1990_
Lucille Clifton

No. 22 | _John Logan: The Collected Fiction_

No. 23 | _Shenandoah and Other Verse Plays_
Delmore Schwartz

No. 24 | _Nobody Lives on Arthur Godfrey Boulevard_
Gerald Costanzo

No. 25 | _The Book of Names_ : _New and Selected Poems_
Barton Sutter

No. 26 | _Each in His Season_
W. D. Snodgrass

No. 27 | _Wordworks: Poems Selected and New_
Richard Kostelanetz

No. 28 | _What We Carry_
Dorianne Laux

No. 29 | _Red Suitcase_
Naomi Shihab Nye

No. 30 | _Song_
Brigit Pegeen Kelly

No. 31 | _The Fuehrer Bunker_ : _The Complete Cycle_
W. D. Snodgrass

No. 32 | _For the Kingdom_
Anthony Piccione

No. 33 | _The Quicken Tree_
Bill Knott

No. 34 | _These Upraised Hands_
William B. Patrick

No. 35 | _Crazy Horse in Stillness_
William Heyen

No. 36 | _Quick, Now, Always_
Mark Irwin

No. 37 | _I Have Tasted the Apple_
Mary Crow

No. 38 | _The Terrible Stories_
Lucille Clifton

No. 39 | _The Heat of Arrivals_
Ray Gonzalez

No. 40 | _Jimmy & Rita_
Kim Addonizio

No. 41 | _Green Ash, Red Maple, Black Gum_
Michael Waters

No. 42 | _Against Distance_
Peter Makuck

No. 43 | _The Night Path_
Laurie Kutchins

No. 44 | _Radiography_
Bruce Bond

No. 45 | _At My Ease: Uncollected Poems of the Fifties and Sixties_
David Ignatow

No. 46 | _Trillium_
Richard Foerster

No. 47 | _Fuel_
Naomi Shihab Nye

No. 48 | _Gratitude_
Sam Hamill

No. 49 | _Diana, Charles, & the Queen_
William Heyen

No. 50 | _Plus Shipping_
Bob Hicok

No. 51 | _Cabato Sentora_
Ray Gonzalez

No. 52 | _We Didn't Come Here for This_
William B. Patrick

No. 53 | _The Vandals_
Alan Michael Parker

No. 54 | _To Get Here_
Wendy Mnookin

No. 55 | _Living Is What I Wanted_ : _Last Poems_
David Ignatow

No. 56 | _Dusty Angel_
Michael Blumenthal

No. 57 | _The Tiger Iris_
Joan Swift

No. 58 | _White City_
Mark Irwin

No. 59 | _Laugh at the End of the World_ : _Collected Comic Poems 1969–1999_
Bill Knott

No. 60 | _Blessing the Boats: New and Selected Poems: 1988–2000_
Lucille Clifton

No. 61 | _Tell Me_
Kim Addonizio

No. 62 | _Smoke_
Dorianne Laux

No. 63 | _Parthenopi: New and Selected Poems_
Michael Waters

No. 64 | _Rancho Notorious_
Richard Garcia

No. 65 | _Jam_
Joe-Anne McLaughlin

No. 66 | _A. Poulin, Jr. Selected Poems_
Edited, with an Introduction by Michael Waters

No. 67 | _Small Gods of Grief_
Laure-Anne Bosselaar

No. 68 | _Book of My Nights_
Li-Young Lee

No. 69 | _Tulip Farms and Leper Colonies_
Charles Harper Webb

No. 70 | _Double Going_
Richard Foerster

No. 71 | _What He Took_
Wendy Mnookin

No. 72 | _The Hawk Temple at Tierra Grande_
Ray Gonzalez

No. 73 | _Mules of Love_
Ellen Bass

No. 74 | _The Guests at the Gate_
Anthony Piccione

No. 75 | _Dumb Luck_
Sam Hamill

No. 76 | _Love Song with Motor Vehicles_
Alan Michael Parker

No. 77 | _Life Watch_
Willis Barnstone

No. 78 | _The Owner of the House: New Collected Poems 1940–2001_
Louis Simpson

No. 79 | _Is_
Wayne Dodd

No. 80 | _Late_
Cecilia Woloch

No. 81 | _Precipitates_
Debra Kang Dean

No. 82 | _The Orchard_
Brigit Pegeen Kelly

No. 83 | _Bright Hunger_
Mark Irwin

No. 84 | _Desire Lines: New and Selected Poems_
Lola Haskins

No. 85 | _Curious Conduct_
Jeanne Marie Beaumont

No. 86 | _Mercy_
Lucille Clifton

No. 87 | _Model Homes_
Wayne Koestenbaum

No. 88 | _Farewell to the Starlight in Whiskey_
Barton Sutter

No. 89 | _Angels for the Burning_
David Mura

No. 90 | _The Rooster's Wife_
Russell Edson

No. 91 | _American Children_
Jim Simmerman

No. 92 | _Postcards from the Interior_
Wyn Cooper

No. 93 | _You & Yours_
Naomi Shihab Nye

No. 94 | _Consideration of the Guitar: New and Selected Poems 1986–2005_
Ray Gonzalez

No. 95 | _Off-Season in the Promised Land_
Peter Makuck

No. 96 | _The Hoopoe's Crown_
Jacqueline Osherow

No. 97 | _Not for Specialists: New and Selected Poems_
W. D. Snodgrass

No. 98 | _Splendor_
Steve Kronen

No. 99 | _Woman Crossing a Field_
Deena Linett

No. 100 | _The Burning of Troy_
Richard Foerster

No. 101 | _Darling Vulgarity_
Michael Waters

No. 102 | _The Persistence of Objects_
Richard Garcia

No. 103 | _Slope of the Child Everlasting_
Laurie Kutchins

No. 104 | _Broken Hallelujahs_
Sean Thomas Dougherty

No. 105 | _Peeping Tom's Cabin:Comic Verse 1928–2008_
X. J. Kennedy

No. 106 | _Disclamor_
G.C. Waldrep

No. 107 | _Encouragement for a Man Falling to His Death_
Christopher Kennedy

No. 108 | _Sleeping with Houdini_
Nin Andrews

No. 109 | _Nomina_
Karen Volkman

No. 110 | _The Fortieth Day_
Kazim Ali

No. 111 | _Elephants & Butterflies_
Alan Michael Parker

No. 112 | _Voices_
Lucille Clifton

No. 113 | _The Moon Makes Its Own Plea_
Wendy Mnookin

No. 114 | _The Heaven-Sent Leaf_
Katy Lederer

No. 115 | _Struggling Times_
Louis Simpson

No. 116 | _And_
Michael Blumenthal

No. 117 | _Carpathia_
Cecilia Woloch

No. 118 | _Seasons of Lotus, Seasons of Bone_
Matthew Shenoda

No. 119 | _Sharp Stars_
Sharon Bryan

No. 120 | _Cool Auditor_
Ray Gonzalez

No. 121 | _Long Lens: New and Selected Poems_
Peter Makuck

No. 122 | _Chaos Is the New Calm_
Wyn Cooper

No. 123 | _Diwata_
Barbara Jane Reyes

No. 124 | _Burning of the Three Fires_
Jeanne Marie Beaumont

No. 125 | _Sasha Sings the Laundry on the Line_
Sean Thomas Dougherty

No. 126 | _Your Father on the Train of Ghosts_
G.C. Waldrep and John Gallaher

No. 127 | _Ennui Prophet_
Christopher Kennedy

No. 128 | _Transfer_
Naomi Shihab Nye

No. 129 | _Gospel Night_
Michael Waters

No. 130 | _The Hands of Strangers: Poems from the Nursing Home_
Janice N. Harrington

No. 131 | _Kingdom Animalia_
Aracelis Girmay

No. 132 | _True Faith_
Ira Sadoff

No. 133 | _The Reindeer Camps and Other Poems_
Barton Sutter

No. 134 | _The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton: 1965–2010_

No. 135 | _To Keep Love Blurry_
Craig Morgan Teicher

No. 136 | _Theophobia_
Bruce Beasley

No. 137 | _Refuge_
Adrie Kusserow

No. 138 | _The Book of Goodbyes_
Jillian Weise

No. 139 | _Birth Marks_
Jim Daniels

No. 140 | _No Need of Sympathy_
Fleda Brown

No. 141 | _There's a Box in the Garage You Can Beat with a Stick_
Michael Teig

No. 142 | _The Keys to the Jail_
Keetje Kuipers

No. 143 | _All You Ask for Is Longing: New and Selected Poems 1994–2014_
Sean Thomas Dougherty

No. 144 | _Copia_
Erika Meitner

No. 145 | _The Chair: Prose Poems_
Richard Garcia

No. 146 | _In a Landscape_
John Gallaher

No. 147 | _Fanny Says_
Nickole Brown

No. 148 | _Why God Is a Woman_
Nin Andrews

No. 149 | _Testament_
G.C. Waldrep

No. 150 | _I'm No Longer Troubled by the Extravagance_
Rick Bursky

No. 151 | _Antidote for Night_
Marsha de la O

No. 152 | _Beautiful Wall_
Ray Gonzalez

No. 153 | _the black maria_
Aracelis Girmay

No. 154 | _Celestial Joyride_
Michael Waters

No. 155 | _Whereso_
Karen Volkman

No. 156 | _The Day's Last Light Reddens the Leaves of the Copper Beech_
Stephen Dobyns

No. 157 | _The End of Pink_
Kathryn Nuernberger

No. 158 | _Mandatory Evacuation_
Peter Makuck

No. 159 | _Primitive: The Art and Life of Horace H. Pippin_
Janice N. Harrington

No. 160 | _The Trembling Answers_
Craig Morgan Teicher

No. 161 | _Bye-Bye Land_
Christian Barter

No. 162 | _Sky Country_
Christine Kitano

No. 163 | _All Soul Parts Returned_
Bruce Beasley

No. 164 | _The Smoke of Horses_
Charles Rafferty

No. 165 | _The Second O of Sorrow_
Sean Thomas Dougherty

No. 166 | _Holy Moly Carry Me_
Erika Meitner

No. 167 | _Clues from the Animal Kingdom_
Christopher Kennedy

No. 168 | _Dresses from the Old Country_
Laura Read

No. 169 | _In Country_
Hugh Martin

No. 170 | _The Tiny Journalist_
Naomi Shihab Nye

No. 171 | _All Its Charms_
Keetje Kuipers

No. 172 | _Night Angler_
Geffrey Davis

No. 173 | _The Human Half_
Deborah Brown

No. 174 | _Cyborg Detective_
Jillian Weise

No. 175 | _On the Shores of Welcome Home_
Bruce Weigl
COLOPHON

The Isabella Gardner Poetry Award is given biennially to a poet in mid-career with a new book of exceptional merit. Poet, actress, and associate editor of _Poetry_ magazine, Isabella Gardner (1915–1981) published five celebrated collections of poetry, was three times nominated for the National Book Award, and was the first recipient of the New York State Walt Whitman Citation of Merit for Poetry. She championed the work of young and gifted poets, helping many of them to find publication.

_The publication of this book is made possible, in part, by the support of the following individuals:_

Anonymous

Rick Bursky

Gary & Gwen Conners

Don Fox, _in honor of my comrades_

_at Armed Forces Vietnam Radio Network (AFVN)_

James Long Hale

Art & Pam Hatton

Sandi Henschel, _in loving memory of Robert Keesey_

Adrie Kusserow, _in honor of Bruce Weigl_

Jack & Gail Langerak

Joe McElveney

Dan Meyers, _in honor of J. Shepard Skiff_

Wendy & Jim Mnookin

Boo Poulin

Deborah Ronnen

Steven O. Russell & Phyllis Rifkin-Russell

William Waddell & Linda Rubel

Michael Waters & Mihaela Moscaliuc

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook


text:
Automotive Car News Top Rated SUV and Trucks 2019/2020
Best SUV Lease Deals Right Now | Best Deals
Home»GMC»2022 GMC Jimmy Concept, Rumors, Price | Upcoming Off-Road SUV»2022 GMC Jimmy Pictures based On Terrain 2020
2022 GMC Jimmy Pictures based On Terrain 2020
The off-road SUV market is getting hotter now with the report of 2022 GMC Jimmy. General Motors was previously rumored to find a rival for the Jeep Wrangler. And, the most likely model to compete with the Wrangler is a new GMC Jimmy SUV.
It's no secret that the name Jimmy was ever been used by the automaker for its version of the Chevy Blazer. A comeback of this Jimmy is then expected to respond to the popularity of Jeep Wrangler and the next-generation Ford Bronco.
The new Jimmy tends to come out as a body-on-frame SUV with off-road capabilities. This is especially interested in SUV enthusiasts who want to ride on a vehicle that has an off-road charm. If it happens to be true, the new Jimmy probably uses the automaker's mid-size-truck platform.
At this point, the new GMC Jimmy concept will share similar groundwork to the GMC Canyon and Chevrolet Colorado. When it comes to powertrain, GMC seems to keep it similar to the existing SUVs or pickups that it currently has.
GMC Jimmy 2022 Concept Will Compete with Jeep Wrangler
If the automaker makes the upcoming Jimmy use the same platform with the Canyon and Colorado, it will probably be powered by a 3.6L V-6 engine. Moreover, a turbo-diesel engine is expected to be available in the next Jimmy as well.
Meanwhile, the market of truck-based SUV is pretty trendy nowadays. For instance, the latest Wrangler is reported to receive great sales regardless of the haughty price. The promising market of truck-based SUV is also proved by the sales of the old Toyota 4Runner.
The trend of this kind of SUV should encourage GMC to finalize its Jimmy soon. But, even if this model won't hit the market, there is a huge possibility that Jimmy will be included in Canyon's trim options like how it's done in Colorado.
Considering the GMC Jimmy 2022 concept, the automaker may drop its plan to produce the next crossover. In this case, instead of a body-on-frame SUV like the rumored Jimmy, GMC may opt for a subcompact crossover. Yet, this model may partly cover the famous Buick Encore.
Better Performance Is Expected from 2022 Jimmy
This would go beyond the Encore since the subcompact crossover is supposed to use a similar showroom with the automaker's lineup. However, many believe that GMC will continue with its plan to revive the Jimmy considering the achievement of Fiat Chrysler and other vehicles in its class.
Aside from the rumors of its concept and update, there is no other report related to the upcoming Jimmy. It was only said that the upcoming Jimmy may be decorated with sensors as well as data-collecting tools since the automaker currently concerns in this case.
Furthermore, it was also reported that the 2022 GMC Jimmy will have a super dynamic body that offers such amazing performance. Since it hasn't been confirmed yet by the automaker, it seems like GMC will unveil the brand new Jimmy several years later.
If it happens to come true, the upcoming GMC Jimmy may cost around $30,000. However, we still need to pay attention to the test, spy shots, and other hints of Jimmy's release in the upcoming years. At this time, we cannot be sure about Jimmy.
The History of GMC Jimmy
While waiting for its release, you might like to learn more about the previous model of GMC Jimmy that has been on the market for years. It is known that the last update of Jimmy was for the 2005 model year and it was then discontinued after that.
It is known that the first GMC Jimmy was released in 1970. At that time, Jimmy was recognized as a full-sized SUV. Even though it has been discontinued, there are many rumors about the car such as the recent news of a new 2019 GMC Jimmy.
While it was first introduced as a full-size SUV, the old GMC Jimmy was then considered as a compact sport utility vehicle in 1983. This is because the old Jimmy shares many similarities with the Chevy Blazer. Then, the first Jimmy pickup truck had two doors.
The four-door version of the GMC Jimmy was initially released in 1991. At that time, the automaker aimed to make Jimmy compete with Ford Explorer and Jeep Cherokee. After that, it received a comprehensive refresh in 1995 to have thinner body panels.
2022 GMC Jimmy Engine Specs & Price
In 1998, the old Jimmy was finally available in two-wheel-drive as well as four-wheel-drive. This 1998 GMC Jimmy was the one that is powered by a 4.3L V-6 engine. The engine is capable to generate 190 horsepower and 250 lb-ft of power torque, making it a reliable vehicle.
While the 2022 Jimmy was expected to cost around $30,000 and might be announced several years later, the used versions of the car are still obtainable on the market. While waiting for the official GMC Jimmy 2022 release date, checking out the used options would be great.
For example, the used 2005 GMC Jimmy was available on the market starting at $2,900. Standard features found in the old Jimmy include an anti-lock braking system, basic air conditioning, front airbags, powertrain immobilizer, and 15-inch wheels. A luxurious version of Jimmy that is called Envoy is available too.
In conclusion, General Motors is expected to release a new version of its GMC Jimmy in the upcoming years. It is supposed to be an off-road SUV that can compete with the recently-redesigned Wrangler and Canyon. So, let's wait for any official statement related to the 2022 GMC Jimmy.
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text:
Q: How to applying a datatemplate automatically by type, but also using it by key in XAML? I'm trying to populate the contents of an ItemControl with instances of various types, where each of them should have their own data template assigned. Now some of them might be nested within another type, or might appear at the root of the collection, but I'd like to use the same data template for both.
<ItemsControl Items="{Binding MyItems}">
  <ItemsControl.Resources>
    <DataTemplate Type="{x:Type MyType1}">
      <!-- contains this stuff -->
    </DataTemplate>
    <DataTemplate Type="{x:Type MyType2}>
      <!-- contains that stuff -->
    </DataTemplate>
    <HierarchicalDataTemplate Type="{x:Type MyType3WhichHostsType1}" ItemsSource="{Children}">
      <SomeWrapperStuff>
        <ItemsControl Items="{Children}" ItemsTemplate="HOW?" /> <--- this part
      </SomeWrapperStuff>
    </HierarchicalDataTemplate>
  </ItemsControl.Resources>
</ItemsControl>

The problem is, once I assign a key to the data template of MyType1, it stops being resolved automatically for all instances at the root of the collection, and instead only works within the nested HierarchicalDataTemplate. Is there a XAML-way of telling the ItemsControl that it should both resolve the template for an item by type, while I can still reference it as static resource by key?

A: No. This is because when you specify a DataTemplate in a ResourceDictionary with a DataType and no x:Key, WPF creates an implicit value for x:Key equal to "{x:Type [value of DataType property]}". So your DataTemplate always has a key.
As such, when you explicitly provide a key value, you are effectively replacing that Type-based key with another key, which causes WPF to no longer match the DataTemplate to its intended elements.
A workaround is to clone the DataTemplate, specifying x:Key in one and omitting it in the other.

A: This is a follow up to my comment here should anyone else looking for a similiar solution, however I'm leaving the accepted answer since I specifically asked for a pure XAML solution.
This simple DataTemplateSelector allows to assign several templates by type (with also checking whether an item is of a derived type of a template key-pair specified), while still allowing to assign a key to them.
public class TypeDataTemplateSelector : DataTemplateSelector {
  public Collection<TypeDataTemplate> Templates { get; } = new Collection<TypeDataTemplate>();

  public override DataTemplate SelectTemplate(object item, DependencyObject container) =>
    item != null
      ? Templates.Where(templatePair => IsDerivedOfType(item.GetType(), templatePair.Type))
        .Select(templatePair => templatePair.Template).FirstOrDefault() : null;

  private static bool IsDerivedOfType(Type itemType, Type baseType) {
    while (true) {
      if (itemType == baseType) return true;
      if (itemType.BaseType == null) return false;
      itemType = itemType.BaseType;
    }
  }
}

public class TypeDataTemplate {
  public Type Type { get; set; }
  public DataTemplate Template { get; set; }
}

Example usage:
<MyControl.Resources>
  <DataTemplate x:Key="SomeTemplate1" />
  <DataTemplate x:Key="SomeTemplate2" />
  <HierarchicalDataTemplate x:Key="SomeTemplateWithChildren" ItemsSource="...">
    <ItemsControl ItemsSource="..." ItemsTemplate="{StaticResource SomeTemplate1}" />
  </HierarchicalDataTemplate>
  <TypeDataTemplateSelector x:Key="MyTypeDataTemplateSelector">
    <TypeDataTemplateSelector.Templates>
      <TypeDataTemplate Type="{x:Type SomeType1}" Template="{StaticResource SomeTemplate1}" />
      <TypeDataTemplate Type="{x:Type SomeType2}" Template="{StaticResource SomeTemplate2}" />
      <TypeDataTemplate Type="{x:Type SomeTypeWithChildren}" Template="{StaticResource SomeTemplateWithChildren}" />
    </TypeDataTemplateSelector.Templates>
  </TypeDataTemplateSelector>
</MyControl.Resources>
...
<ItemsControl Items="{Binding SomeItems}" ItemTemplateSelector="{StaticResource MyTypeDataTemplateSelector}" />

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


text:
11 results for date range 2000 - 2000
The Charlotte Jewish news. (Feb. 1, 2000)
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Green Beret Mowing Services provides general garden maintenance and lawn mowing services to the local communities surrounding Frankston and Cranbourne suburbs.
We are dedicated to providing customer service that can't be matched. When you book us, you can look forward to cleaners Narre Warren that will carry out every job to the highest possible standards. As well as providing great quality cleaning, we pride ourselves on being able to work when you want us to. We know that modern life can be busy - we are available in normal working hours, but will also come out at weekends and evenings... whenever you need us, we are ready to go! Our commitment to customer satisfaction goes even deeper than the excellent quality of our work... we deliver all of our services for rates that are difficult to beat in the Melbourne area.
We pride ourselves on offering prompt and reliable Lawn and Gardening Services to our customers. We are also a registered and fully ensured business to ensure your piece of mind. Same Day Services.
Batchelors Cleaning Service provide brilliant results! Whether it be window cleaning, pressure cleaning or even end of lease and bond money cleaning, we strive for perfection. Free quotes.
Our aim and passion is to leave your windows glistening and sparkling. Whether it is around your home our specialty is finding the perfect way to clean your specific windows, taking care to pay attention to every last detail. Our experienced team understand the importance of presenting a clean image to your clients and customers. We are able to regularly clean your property, or even just a once off clean that will make your windows shine again!
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Gutter Wiz is a small business based in Melbourne's South Eastern Suburbs specialising in gutter cleaning and more, thoroughly using the latest vacuum technology.
Gutters in any property are related to a lot of hassle, especially blocking and clogging.
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Are you looking for cleaners in Melbourne? Do you need someone to clean your home or office? Maybe your carpet, sofa or car upholstery needs a deep cleaning? We aim to satisfy your needs.
Peter James Gutter Cleaning is a leading gutter cleaning provider in whole of Melbourne and surrounding suburbs.
Flash window cleaning provides a convenient commercial window cleaning service to Melbourne that will feel 'automatic'.
Extensive knowledge and experience about constructions is necessary to get jobs done on high rise buildings. One requires rope access for the same, and it is here that Off Your Wall provides expert help. Our teams of motivated rope access technicians can carry out various jobs like window cleaning, gutter cleaning, water proofing and more.
Peninsula Window Cleaning offers both Window Cleaning and Gutter Cleaning all over the Mornington Peninsula and beyond. Call us for a free quote.
Now available in your local 24/7 to provide you quality work with reasonable price. Window and gutter Cleaning. Residential and Commercial. Highly qualified, experienced and fully insured business.
Superb customer service is one of the hallmarks of our company. Our cleaners Pascoe Vale will ensure that you are satisfied, by completing jobs to a level that can't be matched by anyone else... we will leave you with a smile on your face! What's more, we appreciate that it can be hard to book cleaning services that fit in around family and work pressures. Fortunately, we are willing to work at a time that suits you - we can work weekdays, weekends and even evenings. Whatever time you want us... we're ready. Even better, every last one of our cleaning services Pascoe Vale is available for a price that will turn heads. Great value for money is something we take very seriously, and we strive to offer the most competitive rates in the Melbourne area.
When it comes to expert service and advice, Jim's Mowing Healesville is the one to call!
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We offer the service of high pressure washing of residential to large Industrial sheds. We focus on each individual clients needs, so we can put together a cleaning package that suits you. SMN Cleaning is trained through the External Cleaning Industry Association to ensure you get the most professional result in the exterior cleaning of your premises. Australia's weather conditions are among the most extreme in the world so why not take care of your most valuable asset either it be Domestic/Industrial or Commercial we can help you maintain the value and presentation of it. When selling or renting a property all decisions are made by the first initial view of the outside presentation.
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Did you know that your roof gutters may be full of dry leaves and debris? This can ignite fire. Don't wait till bushfire season, get your gutters cleaned today and keep your loved ones safe!


text:
Q: Asp.Net Core: Sharing authentication cookies in Web Farm doesn't work I have an ASP.NET Core 3.1 application that uses cookie authentication and runs on a web farm.
I want the application to share authenticated cookies between web servers.
The issue is when I log in on Server A through the load balancer the next ajax request from Server B redirects back to the login page. (Status Code 302, Set-Cookie: .AspNet.SharedCookie=;)
If I log in directly to Server A and navigate pages - it works fine. So my suspicions are that Server B does not validate cookies generated by Server A.
Here is configuration of DataProtection:
services.AddDataProtection(options =>
            {
                options.ApplicationDiscriminator = "MyApp";
            })
            .PersistKeysToFileSystem(new DirectoryInfo(GetKeysPath()))
            .SetApplicationName("MyApp")
            .SetDefaultKeyLifetime(TimeSpan.FromDays(365));

And authentication:
services
            .AddAuthentication(options =>
            {
                options.DefaultAuthenticateScheme = CookieAuthenticationDefaults.AuthenticationScheme;
                options.DefaultSignInScheme = CookieAuthenticationDefaults.AuthenticationScheme;
                options.DefaultChallengeScheme = CookieAuthenticationDefaults.AuthenticationScheme;
            })
            .AddCookie(options =>
            {
                options.LoginPath = "/Login/Login";
                options.LogoutPath = "/Login/Logout";
                options.ReturnUrlParameter = "returnUrl";
                options.Cookie.Name = ".AspNet.SharedCookie";
                options.Cookie.Path = "/";
                options.Cookie.IsEssential = true;
                options.Cookie.HttpOnly = true;
                options.ExpireTimeSpan = TimeSpan.FromMinutes(60);
            });

Does anybody know what I'm missing?
P.S.Initial issue I had with DataProtection, each server generated it's own keys so that other servers could not decrypt cookies and anti-forgery tokens. So I copied the same key file to each server and the issue disappeared.
Links I used:
Share Cookies Between Applications
Configure Data Protection

A: I found the root cause of the issue, the problem was not in DataProtection, Authentication or Cookies.
The problem was with Session, it used memory to store sessions so other servers (except which created) didn't know anything about the session. So I added storing session in database, like this one:
services.AddDistributedSqlServerCache(options =>
{
    options.ConnectionString =
        _config["DistCache_ConnectionString"];
    options.SchemaName = "dbo";
    options.TableName = "TestCache";
});

and finally, my web farm is working fine.


If you're suffering from a chronic case of winter cabin fever, but it's WAY too cold to think about doing anything outdoors with your dog, 8 Chains North Winery in Waterford is the answer. It's another Northern Virginia winery that welcomes dogs inside their tasting room as well as on the grounds.
Adding to the high canine-comfort score, 8 Chains has built a fenced-in area for dogs to romp off-leash. There are a few picnic tables in the enclosure, so owners can relax with a glass of vino while keeping an eye on their pup. The play area sits alongside the covered patio and open yard which overlook the vineyard where Sauvignon Blanc and Albariño grapes are grown.
In the tasting room there are a couple of cozy seating areas with deep leather chairs, one in front of the large stone fireplace and one next to a picture window with sunny southern exposure. There's also a private party room and a gallery wall featuring the work of local artists.
Tastings are $8 for five wines. Surprisingly, my favorite was the least expensive, an $18 Vidal Blanc, Traminette and Sauvignon Blanc blend called LoCo (for LOudoun COunty) Vino.
I highly recommend doing the chocolate pairing option for $5 more. Each wine is paired with an elegant artisan truffle from Leesburg chocolatier Abby Rose Confections. My pairing included Salted Caramel, Lemon Honey, Orange Spice and Raspberry truffles. Gourmet chocolate and wine can make anyone forget record-setting wind chill temperatures!
8 Chains is open Thursday-Monday, and located at 38593 Daymont Lane, Waterford, VA 20197.


A vast crumbling can be heard across Europe, coupled with an Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and Beyond.". Balkan Ghosts: A Journey Through History. In Europe's Shadow: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-year Journey Through Romania and Beyond (Hardcover) Today: $18.66 Earn: $0.37 2% Rewards* Add to Cart. Results 1 - 16 of 161 In Europe's Shadow: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and Beyond. By Robert D The World Beyond Your Head: How to Flourish in an Age of Distraction. In Europe's Shadow: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and Beyond. Kaplan takes us on a spellbinding journey into the heart of a volatile region, Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and Beyond. 3.92 of 5 stars 3.92 Imperial Grunts: On the Ground with the American Military, from Mongolia to the Philippines to Iraq and Beyond. In Europe's Shadow: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and. 3.95 of 5 stars 3.95 In Europe's Shadow: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and Beyond. In Europe's Shadow: Two Col Hardcover. In Europe's Shadow: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and Beyond by Robert D. In Europe's Shadow: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and Romania occupies a unique position on the map of Eastern Europe. Kaplan, author of In Europe's Shadow: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey through Romania and Beyond. IN EUROPE'S SHADOW: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and Beyond. Results 1 - 16 of 36 In Europe's Shadow: Two Cold Wars and a Thirty-Year Journey Through Romania and Beyond.


In Len Deighton's 1976 novel SS-GB, Britain has fallen. King George VI is a prisoner in the Tower, and Churchill has been executed. German troops occupy the cities. It is surely only a matter of time before the last partisans holding out in the countryside are rounded up and shot.
Detective Superintendent Douglas Archer's world is bizarrely normal. He answers to Gruppenführer Fritz Kellerman now, but his job is essentially the same as it was before the invasion: investigate and solve murders.
At first glance, there's nothing about the dead man in the shabby apartment over the antique shop to suggest that the fate of nations depends on Archer's decisions over the next few days.


Rose Hibiscus Earrings – L.W.N. Love It. Want It. Need It.
Sparkling from miles away, these vintage inspired rose gold hibiscus earrings are sure to impress and delight. These dazzling statement earrings feature gleaming peach shaped crystal surrounded by a halo of pave round crystals, and are topped off with a beautiful blooming hibiscus flower post that adds the perfect touch of whimsy.


text:
Education Week's blogs > Politics K-12 See our Federal Policy coverage
Betsy DeVos. Donald Trump. The Every Student Succeeds Act. Congress. State chiefs. School spending. Elections. Education Week reporters keep watch on education policy and politics in the nation's capital and in the states.
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Juvenile-Justice Bill Passed by Congress Addresses Academic Records, Credits
By Andrew Ujifusa on December 13, 2018 4:45 PM
Congress has passed juvenile-justice legislation that requires academic credits children earn in detention facilities be transferred with them to their new school, along with their student records.
The Juvenile Justice Reform Act of 2018 also requires annual reports to include information on how many children have contact with the juvenile-justice system due to an offense committed on school grounds, at a school-sponsored event off campus, or via a school official's referral.
The legislation, which will go to President Donald Trump for his signature after having passed Congress on Thursday, is a reauthorization of the Juvenile Justice Delinquency and Prevention Act, which was first passed in 1974. It's been a priority for Sen. Charles Grassley, R-Iowa, the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee. (The sponsor of the House version of the bill is outgoing Rep. Jason Lewis, R-Minn., a member of the House education committee who lost his re-election bid in November.)
Although the legislation doesn't have a tremendous impact on K-12 education policy in general, it does affect some of the most vulnerable students. The Every Student Succeeds Act also tries to make it easier for children leaving juvenile-justice facilities to make the transition into public education by addressing the transfer of their records.
The juvenile-justice bill also requires that children earn full or partial credit toward their high school degrees if they finish secondary school coursework while they're in custody.
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Farewell (Sorta) to One Half of the Politics K-12 Team
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