Time Machines

I came across this poem just now. It is an old favorite:


And here is the poet himself reading it aloud:


You will notice the misprint in line 9. It struck me as wrong, and Stafford’s reading is the way I remember it. “Some year” makes much more sense. A good poem is so closely wrought that even a small change can make a real difference.

On that note, I recalled a story by Ray Bradbury:


To me, this is Bradbury at his best, although it is no way science fiction. Magical realism, maybe, but even that is a stretch.

Try getting clear through either one, reading it aloud. Come on, just try.

And, while the note still holds, a great read: In the Woods by Tana French. When I read it last year, it knocked me off my chair in a way that whodunits seldom do. And I read it at more or less the same time that I read Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind, so I was in quite a state for awhile.

These all seem to resonate with each other. Each involves some kind of “time machine.

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