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Reblogged by me from PluckyChicken, my new favorite everything.


Friday, June 22– All Day! Mom would be delighted, and slightly mortified, but delight would win out.

Here’s the first group up:
The Drawing Room (Home of the Dark Shadows podcast)
On the latest installment of The Drawing Room podcast, Chrissy recites her poem, Ode to Hoffman, 1967, which celebrates Grayson Hall’s contribution to the early episodes of Dark Shadows. The poem is also available to read at the website.

Barnabas & Company
S. R. Shutt shares her thoughts on the artistry of Grayson Hall, playfully inspired by Wallace Stevens’ short verse cycle, Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird.

The Collinsport Historical Society
Jonathan Frid was the face of Dark Shadows, but Grayson Hall was it’s soul. Even though nobody ever made action figures or board games baed on her characters, Dark Shadows wouldn’t have been the same without her.  Plus fan art, vintage newspaper clippings about Hall’s stage career and more throughout the day!

The Performance Art of Grayson Hall: Life On Two Levels
Using lines from her Oscar-nominated film Night of the Iguana as thematic bookends, Frank Jay Gruber discusses the differences between Grayson Hall’s film and television performance styles, and why each is distinct and memorable.

The Collins Foundation
“If you have to choose between real and interesting, choose interesting.” According to Patrick McCray, Grayson Hall gives us both in Dark Shadows.

The Classic Movie Lady
At age 13, this blogger’s favorite actress was Grayson Hall … and she had never seen Dark Shadows.

Yup, poetry. Two of them, to be precise.


The first was written in 1990 for a certain tv show. Intended to suggest the words of a certain still-living character expressing his love for his also still-living enamorata. Never used.



MGM Love Poem


I had no thought for Love,

Nor love for me. The stars

Still shone, the rivers ran

Ere I met her. Yet these now show

Themselves anew. The world

Has been reformed, for now

The stars are made complete by her

The rivers run at her command

And I myself am only whole

When she takes hold my hand.



The second was written in 1985, after the death of my mother.


Epazote, an Herb


Casa Moneo

Used to be a mystery

Down there on Fourteenth Street

Terra Incognita. You made it part of

Our mental map: the place to get

A tortilla press

A comal

A molcajete

Jalapenos, serranos and poblanos.

Everyone there spoke Spanish

Your French was useless with them.

They still told you where everything was.

We would enter the store,

Lists in hand, your wide blue writing

Raiding another climate to take home booty for dinner

We would laugh

At the oddly printed labels

At the strange dried plant parts

At the mystery of it all

You, my mother.

They have epazote now,

At Casa.

All your life

You never tasted it.  We planted

Some in Central Park

Once, when I was nine

Me watching for cops, a mother

And young son, obviously planting

Marijuana. The epazote never grew.

When I saw it,

Cellophane packages behind the register,

I wanted to buy it all

Backtrack time

Race back into your hospital room

Put some on your tongue

So you’d die

Having known how it tasted.




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