T. S. was wrong

Thomas Stearns

was wrong:

July is the cruellest month,
sandwiched between June
and August, which are
almost as cruel if measured
by the unbearable heat here
in the Roman stone desert
which comes immensely
close to a waste land
every day from nine to five

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2023)

Note
A facetious shot at the beginning of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922). Otherwise razor edge reporting from the global warming front in Rome, Italy, on July 11, 2023.

A random hot summer observation haiku

Lolling in her seat,
right hand hung out the window
like a wilted leaf.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2022)

Note
Everything wilts in this seemingly endless summer heat.

The endless summer haiku

Oysters and summer balm
night and drunk
tequila on love

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2018)

Note
A permutation of somebody else’s haiku using the same words. Seemed a bit too obvious, so I moved things around. Feel free to try and reconstruct the original!

The December in Rome haiku

Can’t believe I called
for air conditioning in June
now that I shiver.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2017)

Note
The truth and nothing but. Do you ever feel that there’s no possibility of too much heat when there’s (definitely!) too much cold? ... And Rome’s nothing compared to Moscow or Irkutsk!

The breather fib

Grey
sky
in July -
a breather -
a breeze before the
next scorcher that is sure to come

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2008)

A day of emotional relaxation so far, perfect for reporting on something as neutral as the weather. At the same time, I almost reproach myself for being so mercurial: how can it be that someone I felt so passionate about just a few days ago now seems so distant – and not only that, but comfortably so? Or only numbly so – in keeping with the weather?