Patricia Fargnoli.

When not getting exactly as he wishes, Vincent has taken to plaintively crying, “Honey, please. Please, Honey.” Honey? It’s very unsettling.


Readers continue to discover this blog because of my bout with shingles. Also unsettling.


I was paging through Pat’s newest book of poems, Duties of the Spirit (Tupelo Press, 2005.) wondering which would be the best introduction, the one most likely to beckon you to her reading. And then I did what I always forget to do when it’s a poet I’m familiar with — I read the very first poem in the book:

The Invitation

I have opened the doors
near the garden.
Why don’t you come into
the unfolding
of Japanese fans?
The peacocks are strolling
among the lobelia
for no one but you
in this place where
the impossible
is shaking
its bright turquoise feathers.
I have turned
off the radio,
washed purple and green grapes
for the pedestal table,
filled frosted goblets
with fresh well water.
Afterwards the bed,
its turned down silk.
What you have left behind
will forget you
soon enough.