1: write the poem. The language of it. The actual words are important. The music is as important as the idea. If the music isn’t there, the idea doesn’t take flight.
2: don’t get precious. Write until you find your way. You’re a millionaire of words. Speculate to accumulate.
3: figure out how to get into the sweet spot between idea and music as quickly as possible, ever more directly.
4: no time to second guess yourself. That’s what later is for.
“Art, be it poetry, music, sculpture, puppetry—the whole of it, inspires change on a personal level…”
- A NORMAL INTERVIEW WITH JAMAAL MAY | The Normal School: A Literary Magazine
BH: None. Should sounds like eating vegetables. I'm sorry— I sort of criticised your question there. But I don't like should. I'm guessing that your question has to do, in part, with poetry's diminished status in our culture. I certainly wish poetry still didn't seem so strange to people. Which is weird, given that, if people write, they're more likely to write poetry than anything else, in my experience. With that in mind, I think poetry is an every-day thing for many.
Lamenting the fact that this chapbook appears to have sold out. That said, Bleakney’s next collection is out in April. Looking forward to picking up a copy.
- ‘The Shadow of an Airplane Crosses the Empire State Building’ - Howie Good; via Right Hand Pointing
“For a year I went blind as a freight train, thrashed in a wild grief, because nothing as loud as my…”
in a wild grief, because nothing as loud
as my sorrow could be heard. Now, in the formless dark
I can’t untangle my tongue
even to know what kind of help to ask.
But he tells me I’m all flintstrike
deep in the basement’s gut: again, again, again, again—”
- Extract of Small Bang Theory by Anne Shaw | Kenyon Review Online. Follow the link for the full poem.
- A Poet in My Bones: A Conversation with Brian Spears « Used Furniture Review
imagine your life drawn on a map—
a scribble on the town where you grew up,
each bus trip traced between school
and home, or a clean line across the sea
to a place you flew once. Think of the time
and things we accumulate, all the while growing
more conscious of losing and leaving. Aging,
our bodies collect wrinkles and scars
for each place the world would not give
under our weight.”
- First Gestures (extract), Julia Spicher Kasdorf
The body of a bird in your mouth
Raw light spills from your eyes,
You must breach the horizon, once,
in order to wake up.
You must open window after window.
You must support the walls.
I let alphabets cling to me
as I climb the thread of language
between myself and the world.
I muster crowds in my mouth:
suspended between language and the world,
between the world and the alphabets.
I let my head
listen to the myth,
to all sides praising each other.
And I shout at the winds from the top of a mountain.
Why does my tongue tell me to climb this far?
What is the distance between my voice and my longing? What is there?
A body transcending my body.
A body exiled by desire.
A body sheltered by the wind.
Nii Ayikwei Parkes and daughter…
Long time no photo. Long story short, I’m shooting again. Had some old rolls of film processed recently and I’m back to shooting digital courtesy of a diminutive Sony Nex 5N. These are from the Bronica at the beginning of the year, an event I organised under the title of Poetry Loves Company. More to follow.
“sorrows”- a poem by Lucille Clifton (6/27/36–2/13/10).
"The sky has taken away light. Is it punishment? the newspaper editorial asked. We thought God was…"
Is it punishment? the newspaper editorial asked. We thought God was dead.
Forgive us, they said. Whoever you are, forgive us.
The newspaper printed this as if God could read.”
- Blues for the Death of the Sun by Ansel Elkins - Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics
"Everybody should learn to code, he says, because machine/human and machine/machine interaction is…"
If I had kids now their second language course would be a coding language.
And of course, as those Wordpress guys said, code is poetry.
“When the heart is not enough it finds another room. Water does this. Traffic slows for rain. Let the tangled roots come and teach you sprawl, moral substitution, efficiency: every weed leans towards the ungraspable. In time fingers write their own music whether or not they are slender. Breathe. Make your own gravity, pull down sunlight. It takes longer than years to cross the door.”
— Other Things and Other Poems
(new and selected poems, with Croatian translation)
by Alvin Pang
Long time no Books Actually. September, fingers crossed, I’ll stop by. Be still, my beating bibliophilia…
- Mary Oliver, The Uses Of Sorrow