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thoughts on science, history, and teaching
John M. Lynch is an Honors Faculty Fellow at Barrett the Honors College at Arizona State University. He's also affiliated with ASU's Center for Biology & Society. When he's not an historian of anti-evolutionism, he's an evolutionary morphologist. Much to his surprise, in 2007 he was named the Arizona Professor of the Year. No doubt his students were surprised as well.
Category: Poetry
Seamus Heaney, Irish poet and Nobel Prize winner is 70 today. To celebrate here is his poem "Strange Fruit," one of a series of poems about bog-bodies. Here is the girl's head like an exhumed gourd. Oval-faced, prune-skinned, prune-stones for...
Posted by John Lynch at 2:34 PM • 3 Comments •
Category: Poetry
There are sizable numbers of Neotropical cormorants (Phalacrocorax olivaceus) that hang around the lakes near where I live here in Tempe. As I drove home this evening a flight of about ten of them were moving from one of...
Posted by John Lynch at 11:44 PM • 2 Comments • 0 TrackBacks
Category: Poetry
From seeing the bars, his seeing is so exhausted that it no longer holds anything anymore. To him the world is bars, a hundred thousand bars, and behind the bars, nothing. The lithe swinging of that rhythmical easy...
Posted by John Lynch at 5:00 AM • 2 Comments • 0 TrackBacks
Category: Poetry
John Wilkins has reminded me of Philip Larkin's poem Aubade: I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what's really...
Posted by John Lynch at 8:51 PM • • 0 TrackBacks
Category: Poetry
AGRIPPA (A Book of The Dead) by William Gibson I hesitated before untying the bow that bound this book together. A black book: ALBUMS CA. AGRIPPA Order Extra Leaves By Letter and Name A Kodak album of time-burned black...
Posted by John Lynch at 4:54 PM • • 0 TrackBacks
Category: Poetry
The Stoat Walking in the warmest afternoon this year has yielded yet, through slopes of whin that made the shadows luminous, and filled the slow air with its fragrance, we went down a narrow track, stone-littered, under trees which...
Posted by John Lynch at 4:56 PM • • 0 TrackBacks
Category: Poetry
Like a desert flower waiting for rain, like a river-bank thirsting for the touch of pitchers, like the dawn longing for light; and like a house, like a house in ruins for want of a woman - the exhausted...
Posted by John Lynch at 2:45 AM • • 0 TrackBacks
Category: Poetry
I haven't posted poetry in nearly three months, so spurred on by the news that the noted Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish has died today following heart surgery, I think I need to start doing so again (at least semi-regularly). The...
Posted by John Lynch at 7:19 PM • 1 Comments • 0 TrackBacks
Ox Transcended Whip, rope, self, ox - no traces left. Thoughts cannot penetrate the vast blue sky, Snowflakes cannot survive a red-hot stove. Arriving here, meet the ancient teachers. K’uo-an (trans. Stanley Lombardo) [image source]...
Posted by John Lynch at 4:17 PM • • 0 TrackBacks
Ox Forgotten Reaching home on the back of the ox, Rest now, the ox forgotten. Taking a nap under the noon sun, Whip and rope abandoned behind the hut. K’uo-an (trans. Stanley Lombardo) [image source]...
Posted by John Lynch at 12:25 PM • • 0 TrackBacks
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