Tag Archives: Connecticut Setting

The Hartford Wits

Addressed to my Friends at Yale College (1776)

Addressed to my Friends at Yale College, on my Leaving them to join the army (1776)

by David Humphreys, 1776

David Humphreys (1752-1818) entered Yale at the age of 15 in 1767. Brought up in Derby, Connecticut, he was the youngest of Reverend Daniel and Sarah Riggs Bowers Humphreys’ five children and he grew up surrounded by wealth.  During his freshman year at Yale, David Humphreys is credited with establishing “Brothers in Unity,” a literary and debate club that became popular in the 19th century. Humphreys made Boston his home when he returned to America in 1801. However, Humphreys still visited Hartford and introduced Spanish merino sheep to Connecticut, building a successful woolen mill near Derby.  Continue reading Addressed to my Friends at Yale College (1776) →

Juliet Grames

The Seven or Eight Deaths of Stella Fortuna

Advisory: this passage contains abusive language and a dream sequence with an imagined sexual assault.

from The Seven or Eight Deaths of Stella Fortuna

Youth (The Fifth Death)

by Juliet Grames

THE  FIFTH DEATH BEGAN IN A DREAM.

One July morning in 1941, in the hanging lavender of predawn, Stella Fortuna rose from the bed she shared with Tina, leaving her sister to her last minutes of wet late-sleep snoring before their grueling day in the tobacco fields.

Stella took their ceramic washbasin to the kitchen, filled it with warm water, and brought it back to their nightstand. This was the girls’ beauty area, safe from the hectic imperialism of the boys’ barging and odors. This morning in her dream-for this was a dream-Stella watched her own face in the scuffed blue mirror nailed to the wall above the basin as she guided her washcloth over the areas that needed the most attention. She didn’t recognize herself, but that didn’t seem strange. Continue reading The Seven or Eight Deaths of Stella Fortuna →

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Charles Dudley Warner

Backlog Studies – Sixth Study, Part III

Backlog Studies – Sixth Study, Part III

by Charles Dudley Warner

Sixth Study

III
Herbert returned to us in March. The Young Lady was spending the winter with us, and March, in spite of the calendar, turned out to be a winter month. It usually is in New England, and April too, for that matter. And I cannot say it is unfortunate for us. There are so many topics to be turned over and settled at our fireside that a winter of ordinary length would make little impression on the list. The fireside is, after all, a sort of private court of chancery, where nothing ever does come to a final decision. The chief effect of talk on any subject is to strengthen one’s own opinions, and, in fact, one never knows exactly what he does believe until he is warmed into conviction by the heat of attack and defence. A man left to himself drifts about like a boat on a calm lake; it is only when the wind blows that the boat goes anywhere. Continue reading Backlog Studies – Sixth Study, Part III →

Charles Dudley Warner

Backlog Studies – Third Study, Parts I, II, III, IV

Backlog Studies, Third Study

by Charles Dudley Warner

Third Study

I
Herbert said, as we sat by the fire one night, that he wished he had turned his attention to writing poetry like Tennyson’s.

The remark was not whimsical, but satirical. Tennyson is a man of talent, who happened to strike a lucky vein, which he has worked with cleverness. The adventurer with a pickaxe in Washoe may happen upon like good fortune. The world is full of poetry as the earth is of “pay-dirt;” one only needs to know how to “strike” it. An able man can make himself almost anything that he will. It is melancholy to think how many epic poets have been lost in the tea-trade, how many dramatists (though the age of the drama has passed) have wasted their genius in great mercantile and mechanical enterprises. I know a man who might have been the poet, the essayist, perhaps the critic, of this country, who chose to become a country judge, to sit day after day upon a bench in an obscure corner of the world, listening to wrangling lawyers and prevaricating witnesses, preferring to judge his fellow-men rather than enlighten them. Continue reading Backlog Studies – Third Study, Parts I, II, III, IV →

Charles Dudley Warner

Backlog Studies – Second Study, Part IV

Backlog Studies, Second Study, Part IV

by Charles Dudley Warner

Second Study

IV

The fireplace wants to be all aglow, the wind rising, the night heavy and black above, but light with sifting snow on the earth, a background of inclemency for the illumined room with its pictured walls, tables heaped with books, capacious easy-chairs and their occupants,—it needs, I say, to glow and throw its rays far through the crystal of the broad windows, in order that we may rightly appreciate the relation of the wide-jambed chimney to domestic architecture in our climate. We fell to talking about it; and, as is usual when the conversation is professedly on one subject, we wandered all around it. The young lady staying with us was roasting chestnuts in the ashes, and the frequent explosions required considerable attention. The mistress, too, sat somewhat alert, ready to rise at any instant and minister to the fancied want of this or that guest, forgetting the reposeful truth that people about a fireside will not have any wants if they are not suggested. The worst of them, if they desire anything, only want something hot, and that later in the evening. And it is an open question whether you ought to associate with people who want that. Continue reading Backlog Studies – Second Study, Part IV →

Charles Dudley Warner

Calvin–A Study of Character

This essay is an extended joke. The title makes the reader think they will get a boring biography of John Calvin (1509-1564), a theologian and leader of the Protestant Reformation. Instead, this is a profile of an interesting and unusual resident of Nook Farm. Can you discover why this Calvin seems slightly different? How does Warner’s writing lead us to think Calvin is something they are not? Continue reading Calvin–A Study of Character →

Uncategorized

Pastel in Gray

Pastel in Gray

by Martha Linsley Spencer

Translucent sky,
   softer than mother-of-pearl
   it gleams and grays
   over the city,
   over the river,
   above the bridge ——
Red, like a ruby
   hangs the trellised-star
   of radio.
Picked with golden-lighted windows,
   gray bulk of stone on stone
   merges into gray
   without a sharpened line,
   Where the Traveler’s Tower
   lifts its pinnacled height
   into the luminous dusk
   of the gray October twilight.

“S.L.M”

Latino/a Poets

Cultivo

Cultivo

by Luisa Caycedo-Kimura

once mourning doves   made me think

of graveyards

 

today        they peck     at weed seeds

clean        my land

 

the oldest on record     lived 30 years    and 4 months

from the time          it was tagged

 

until         it was shot

how many mates           did it mourn

 

American toads       breed

at the neighbor’s pond

 

I wring       laundry     to hang     on a clothesline

mostly black

 

when I was eight

a man trapped me    in the stairwell

 

to our New York        apartment

the note from his pocket     loose-leaf cutout

 

blue ink print      said I was       beautiful

a scalpel      in his pocket

 

how many      would die

in a war        without weapons

 

I was born        in the middle

of an Andean hurricane     the first time

 

I saw mamá      her blue eyes

reflected green            from the flame

 

of a candle    the last time   in Florida

her eyes         were shut

 

yesterday       Aaron and I      planned

a garden         for our new         Connecticut home

 

asparagus and blueberries can’t be harvested

for two years

 

seeds must avoid      hickory taproots

cilantro      has to be        direct seeded

 

doesn’t like       to be moved

my older sister bought           her first house

 

after med school

lived there               twenty years

 

before renting it out            I’ve moved

twenty times       from rental to rental

 

clouds dissipate        on our ridge

we buy spades      trowels

 

pruners         window sheers

fog on the trees        lingers

 

coats        the open grass

droplets      vaporize       burn the fog

 

how does one quench         an instinct

to bolt

 

Copyright 2021 Luisa Caycedo-Kimura

From All Were Limones (The Word Works, 2025); originally published in Shennandoah, Spring 2021

Used by permission of the author.
Latino/a Poets

A Cup of Coffee

A Cup of Coffee

by Bessy Reyna

“Watch me!” I Tell Rob,
the lovely dark-haired friend
who has joined me for lunch
“Watch me, I’ll have to pretend
I don’t know that the coffee is a gift from him.”

We dance the tango

Ricardo, the Argentinian man,
is so happy to see me.
It’s been so long since I had lunch
at this small place
hidden on the second floor of an old building

Rob and I sit by the window
talking about books and watching
the people below us
as they stroll on Pratt Street.

Ricardo whispers to me in a voice
with the cadence of the pampas,
¿Querés un café?  Do you want a cup of coffee?
I know I shouldn’t
it would be one too-many for the day,
but I can taste the offer
the I-want-to-give-you-something
because-I-am-so-happy-to-see-you!
bursting behind the smile

we dance the tango

“Watch me” I say to Rob,
I now have to pretend
that I want to pay for the coffee
and he will refuse to take the money.

The proper behavior
the warmth, generosity,
the nostalgia that engulfs me now
In how many restaurants can you get free coffee
just because the owner is happy to see you?

A native language coming back
to rescue me
transforming me
transporting me

At lunch, we danced the tango.

I say goodbye to Rob,
turn and give Ricardo gracias por el café
before I descend the narrow wooden stairs
that return me to
another culture my brave new world.

Around the corner
a homeless man awaits
“Can I have a dime for a cup of coffee?” he asks
His voice startles me,
I smile
“Come with me and I’ll buy you a coffee”
I tell him, pointing at the
“COFFEE AND PASTRIES” sign a few feet away
“No! Not from there”  he shouts annoyed
“From Dunkin Donuts!!”

Of course, he does not want a cup of coffee
I place some quarters in his extended hand
and walk away smiling
dancing the tango
having paid for my coffee after all.

Previously published in She Remembers by Bessy Reyna, Andrew Mountain Press. 1997.

Used by permission of the author.