Another must read screed from Daily Kos today:
"The Democratic Party and the left cannot effectively bash by using counter-culture, but instead by proving, that, in fact, the Republicans are the anti-culture."
a grouse with completely feathered feet
Another must read screed from Daily Kos today:
The Tiptree final decisions have been made, although not announced. We're still hammering out the long and short lists and the annotations. It's been an amazingly rewarding experience.
"D00d, Modernism Sux" redux
A lot of this resistance to poetry is to be blamed on poets. Some go out of their way to make their poems difficult if not downright discouraging, because diffi cult poems are what they think they’re expected to write to advance their careers. They know it’s the professional interpreters of poetry—book reviewers, professional literary critics—who most often establish a poet’s reputation, and that those interpreters are attracted to poems that offer opportunities to show off their skills at interpretation. A poet who writes poetry that doesn’t require explanation, who writes clear and accessible poems, is of little use to critics building their own careers as interpreters. But a clear and accessible poem can be of use to an everyday reader.
So I was looking at Pokey the Penguin and there is a new Pokey posted!
You are in Florida Orange Juice. The only people, or things, there are Positive Bread, Negative Bread, Sketchpad, random birds, a cane, small pebbles, random plants, clouds, holes, gophers, a hadicap parking sign, a blank sign, and buildings. You see Negative Bread come out from behind a building. What do you do?
So this is "The Post" that I've been working on since 1/3. I've cut out about 60%.
Aaand if anyone's interested, I posted a new speculative poetry exercise at Taverner's Koans. Try them all! All two.
John Klima was kind enough to post my story "A Keeper", which appeared in the 6th issue of his excellent zine Electric Velocipede, here.
I don't want to give this person anymore airtime than necessary, but I had to post something about Richard Trayson's article on the evils of experimental poetry, specifically Language poetry. Not as much for his specious "argument," which could be summed up as "D00d, language poetry SUX and Whitman is so 1337 and Whitman would say language poetry SUX--w00t". Rather, it's fascinating how his article is laden with the kinds of, er, "issues" that seem to inflect both his own poetry and the type of poetry that he's purporting is the gold standard.
I had a bitter taste of language poetry in the first literary magazine I bought, the November/December 1985 issue of American Poetry Review. Leslie Scalapino was on the cover, but it was the Sharon Olds poems that I craved. It was misfortunate for my sense of language poetry that I came to Scalapino’s "that they were at the beach—aeolotropic series" after I’d read Olds’ frighteningly powerful "I Go Back to May 1937" and early scalp-raising versions of poems that would appear in The Father (1992). Scalapino’s work, by comparison, was emotionally flat, unengaging, uneventfully bland...[excerpt given]
This wasn’t my idea of any poetry I wanted to live by—so I packed my bags and moved to New York to study with Sharon Olds.
After the Vanishing
I didn't know what the movie was about
but I was angry at you for not wanting
health insurance or western
medicine, I phoned 777-FILM
and found the closest theater with a 2:45,
I put on my winter coat and said
it's your life, not mine, I'm going to a show.
I didn't know it would be about losing
the person you love in the prime
of your life together, I stood
on the corner of Henry and Orange
and heard the voice of Louise Hay,
her meditations you kept playing
over and over until I hoped
she'd become mute in some tragic accident,
I sat down in the dark to forget you.zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I have to admit that I'm looking forward to Mos Def in the role of Ford Prefect in the upcoming Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy movie.
Neglect, lack of official endorsement; surely these are relative, surely too they are a just reward for the restless and radical desire to write. To imagine that there is a locus of power relevant to writing that exists outside the authority of that desire, which is self-permitted and demanded, is a foolish illusion. Knock long enough at the door of the one place which you imagine it matters to be published...and no doubt you will be let in and learn that they place and object associated with the idea and work are strictly irrelevant. Must it not be the case that the energy invested in imagining the opposite cd [sic] be better invested in re-imagining one's work? Isn't there, for every one of us, someone who imagines that we have more power than they?