Andrew Frisardi
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andrewfrisardi.bsky.social
Andrew Frisardi
@andrewfrisardi.bsky.social
380 followers 350 following 63 posts
I'm here for poetry and serendipity.

Some recent books: The Harvest and the Lamp (poetry) @cuapress.org; Dante's Convivio (translation with commentary) @cambridge.org; Ancient Salt (poetry essays) @wipfandstock.com
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andrewfrisardi.bsky.social
Thank you.
February 3, 2025 at 6:42 PM
andrewfrisardi.bsky.social
It is a great poem, do check it out!

www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44395/...
God's Grandeur
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being sho...
www.poetryfoundation.org
February 3, 2025 at 4:35 PM
andrewfrisardi.bsky.social
Congrats Fliss!
February 3, 2025 at 3:26 PM
andrewfrisardi.bsky.social
An emendment: it is actually NVR's *3rd* issue.
January 28, 2025 at 1:05 PM
andrewfrisardi.bsky.social
Always good to see John's poems. Thanks for posting.
January 24, 2025 at 6:02 PM
andrewfrisardi.bsky.social
Thanks, Fliss!
January 24, 2025 at 6:01 PM
andrewfrisardi.bsky.social
Thanks Fliss. It was indeed a happy birthday.
January 21, 2025 at 7:03 AM
Reposted by Andrew Frisardi
asls.org.uk
Dear Ann, wherever you are
Since you lately learnt to die,
You are this unsetting star
That shines unchanged in my eye…

Born in Kirkwall, Ann Scott-Moncrieff was a friend of the Orkney poet & translator Edwin Muir, who wrote this poem for her when she died.
7/7
Edwin Muir FOR ANN SCOTT-MONCRIEFF (1914–1943) Dear Ann, wherever you are Since you lately learnt to die, You are this unsetting star That shines unchanged in my eye; So near, inaccessible, Absent and present so much Since out of the world you fell, Fell from hearing and touch— So near. But your mortal tongue Used for immortal use, The grace of a woman young, The air of an early muse, The wealth of the chambered brow And soaring flight of your eyes: These are no longer now. Death has a princely prize. You who were Ann much more Than others are that or this, Extravagant over the score To be what only is, Would you not still say now What you once used to say Of the great Why and How, On that or the other day? For though of your heritage The minority here began, Now you have come of age And are entirely Ann. Under the years’ assaults, In the storm of good and bad, You too had the faults That Emily Brontë had, Ills of body and soul, Of sinner and saint and all Who strive to make themselves whole, Smashed to bits by the Fall. Yet ‘the world is a pleasant place’ I can hear your voice repeat, While the sun shone in your face Last summer in Princes Street.
January 11, 2025 at 1:35 PM