For those of you who remember my second wife, Virginia de Courcey, who died in 1986, I am in the process of makng her writings available online. It is labor-intensive, but a labor of love. There are many hundreds of pages to be typed out by hand, as they are on typescript of quality too [...]
Archive for the ‘Virginia DeCourcey’ Category
Virginia de Courcey, relics: literary, political, philosophical writings, 1966-1986
Posted in Rockford College, Virginia DeCourcey on October 24, 2011 | Leave a Comment »
. 5. Bohemia on the Mississippi
Posted in Alfred Lord Tennyson, Algernon Swinburne, Allen Ginsberg, Basho, Bob Dylan, bohemia, cats, Christie Wirth, Christine Mack Gordon, coastal Washington, Dante, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Deborah Digges, dharma bums, Dinkytown, Gary Snyder, graveyards, Jack Kerouac, Jerry Rau, John Keats, John Macoubrie, Jonathan Sisson, Ken Kesey, love lost, Marjorie Buettner, meter, Mississippi River, New Formalism, peyote, poverty, Pre-Raphaelites, rhyme, Robin Zander, Robinson Jeffers, Rock River, Rusoff's Books, the Beats, the Loft, used bookstores, Victoria Dickinson, Virginia DeCourcey, W.B. Yeats, William Shakespeare, tagged bohemia, Gary Snyder, graveyards, New Formalists, Victoria Dickinson on May 26, 2008 | 7 Comments »
In later years: amid the bones of bohemia Once I began publishing poetry and some criticism in the 90s, I had hopes of finding the sort of bohemian literary community I had known a decade earlier when I had worked and rather starved in the Dinkytown neighborhood of Minneapolis for a number of years in [...]
12. Submerged in the waters of Lethe
Posted in absinthe, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Art Institute of Chicago, beauty, Catherine, Dante, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Elizabeth Siddal, Emily Bronte, gothic, graveyards, Heathcliff, John Keats, Lethe, love lost, moor, oblivion, opiates, poppies, poverty, Pre-Raphaelites, shadows, symbolism, Victorians, Virginia DeCourcey, tagged graveyards, Heathcliff, symbolism, Virginia DeCourcy on May 18, 2008 | 1 Comment »
Sleep, dream, opiates, oblivion. Years in which I read Keats above all others, culminating finally in a visit to his home on the edge of Hampstead Heath. A life surrounded by dark colors, drawn curtains, bottles of cabernet and candlelight. Solitary hours in a moonlit garden, midnight excursions to graveyards, daylong pilgrimages to the Symbolist [...]
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