Author: Tom D'Evelyn

Tom D'Evelyn is a private editor and writing tutor in Cranston RI and, thanks to the web, across the US and in the UK. He can be reached at tom.develyn@comcast.net. D'Evelyn has a PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Before retiring he held positions at The Christian Science Monitor, Harvard University Press, Boston University and Brown University. He ran a literary agency for ten years, publishing books by Leonard Nathan and Arthur Quinn, among others. Before moving to Portland OR he was managing editor at Single Island Press, Portsmouth NH. He blogs at http://tdevelyn.com and other sites.

The Surpassing

Beauty arrives, peace
and restlessness together
make my heart home. I

look out at my neigh-
bor’s trees, summer emerald
canopies resound-

ing with space-making
birdsong. Pace Rilke it’s
not for us to trans-

form them: they transform
us in this passing moment,
time’s festivity.

For K.L.

Here are directions
so we can meet again. Washed
up like Ulysses,

I’m not sure how I
got here. Starting from zero,
I was born again.

That it is at all
is the wonder of it. I’ll
show you around. It

has charm. High white caps
churn toward the shore. Gulls twist
in the wind. I sleep

well. Being broken
or broken open makes
a big difference.

Let It Out

As it cools off, a
drop in humidity, I
take a little walk.

Stretching my legs in
the gloaming. Porch lights go on,
the kids being called,

the kids shouting back.
Being with what is other
can shock the system;

in the air-condi-
tioned self windows blow o-
pen and let it out.

Choice of Daemon

I read Ezra Pound
in the foggy lamplight out-
side Fillmore West as

The Jefferson Air-
plane whipped up the crowd inside.
The whores spoke softly.

After the concert,
I joined my friends for the long
ride home in silence.

EP was right: per-
fection leads to madding sol-
itude. The silence

remains. Now I make
a choice of daimon: the chill
companionship

of Horace singing
the other. For the last bit,
his two-oared dingy.

Beyond the Flow

I was late for our
rendezvous and saw you first
in your floppy black

hat (Borsolino).
You waited for me and did
a little two-step

in the garden. Both
middle-aged, uninnocent,
we took our time. Look-

ing back in grief I
see Flora on a damaged
wall in old Pompei.

How on Earth

Midsummer. High clouds,
watery light. I only want
to know one thing: this

saturated flow
found in haiku and Consta-
ble—-how does this world

of suffering and
injustice release us to
such heavenly stuff.