The Deipnosophist

Where the science of investing becomes an art of living

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Location: Summerlin, Nevada, United States

A private investor for 20+ years, I manage private portfolios and write about investing. You can read my market musings on three different sites: 1) The Deipnosophist, dedicated to teaching the market's processes and mechanics; 2) Investment Poetry, a subscription site dedicated to real time investment recommendations; and 3) Seeking Alpha, a combination of the other two sites with a mix of reprints from this site and all-original content. See you here, there, or the other site!

14 February 2008


What could be more appropriate on Valentine's Day than to share poetry -- especially an excellent love poem? And poetry does not often get much better than this poem, WINDCHIME, by Tony Hoagland, which speaks of love, yes, but from an unusual perspective.

btw, one tip to employ when reading poetry: read to the punctuation marks, and not to the end of lines. A trick that Hoagland uses especially well, and to excellent effect. Note the words he uses to end several lines (but not sentences!) of stanza #2 (hand, nail, teeth), which he mimics in stanza #4 (chest, forehead, mouth). And the indelible image of the mouth with the nail in it (sticking out of it!) that yet remains (eminently) kissable. All very clever, indeed. Ahh, love.

For you, SA.

Full Disclosure: Long love. And loving every moment of it.
-- David M Gordon / The Deipnosophist


She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It's six-thirty in the morning
and she's standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,

windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she's trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.

She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime wasn't making
because it wasn't there.

No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands on the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.

-- Tony Hoagland

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