Sunday, February 26, 2017
Eight of Cups
The eight of cups card in the Rider-Waite tarot deck to me expresses a complex reality, at a tangent to what you might read in occult/tarot instructional books. The individual on the card is wearing a red coat, which to me indicates a life or death situation or context. The path that seems easiest for him to walk, of a shallow stream set between mid-size rock formations, has been made inaccessible to him for some reason; the moon's eclipse of the sun adds emphasis, finality, and fatality to this. Yet, as is crucial in the Rider-Waite deck, the sky is pure blue, rather than grey or streaked with clouds. The situation, for the red-coated individual, is not an ambiguous one. The sudden shift is also made decisively; to reach his psycho-spiritual destination, he must turn uphill, away from the easy path, and starting laboriously from the ground. He is in tune, in his turning, with the powers of Earth, including the rock formations themselves, as is indicated by his physical alignment with the largest rock formation. The spiritual energy he emanates, and which allows him to perform the correct physical task, however laborious, is why the suite of Cups is appropriate.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Cheltenham at Poetry Library at Southbank Centre, London
Proud to say that Cheltenham is now on the shelves at the Poetry Library at the Southbank Centre, London, UK. Many thanks to the Poetry Library staff!
Friday, February 10, 2017
Gratis (for Mike Land)
Spring '05: I swung a drunken loop from
the warehouse space back into the Highwire
Gallery itself— throngs of hipsters milling
around, whiskey, wine disappearing from
the little island space situated near
windows picking up western sun-
light, as night descended on Cherry
Street, with an ambiance of anticipation.
When anything can happen in human
life, nothing usually does— what coalesced
here, art mania, was manna to us. Avalon established
eye-contact; off we pranced to the stairwell—
Mike Land grinned lasciviously, as usual,
& polished off a beer he'd received gratis.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Cheltenham Elegies on PennSound
The Cheltenham Elegies mp3, with the Cheltenham Elegies from the Blazevox print book Cheltenham ('12), is now up on my PennSound Author Page. Peace.
Sunday, February 5, 2017
New Sonnets in The Argotist Online
Some of the new sonnets are also up on my poetry page on The Argotist Online. Many thanks to Jeff Side.
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Olympia: A Dream
I was fighting in a French
Revolution of some kind,
hiding out in a sleeping
bag in a mess hall, gun
tucked under pillow. I knew
in an intuitive flash that
we'd be attacked that night, & we
were, but I followed a horse
out the door & was not
killed. Then I was back in
a room w wooden floors &
I saw you preen through
the window, but you weren't
looking in at me, you were
staring off, into the distance,
pristine as a Vermeer maiden,
so I went looking for Manet's
Olympia, whoring behind the mess hall.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Melopoeia (2009-2019)
Poetry that aims at the heart seeks to do so (usually) through an affective catharsis; poetry that aims at the mind seeks to do so through narrative-thematic skillfulness. If we are merely emotionally moved, or merely intellectually stimulated, it is likely that what we are reading is decidedly minor poetry. Minor poetry maintains a narrow focus on a goal that, however elaborately formulated, stays either in the heart or in the mind. Given the battles that have been waged on this blog and elsewhere, it is useful to note that, between the two camps at war in American poetry (mainstream and post-avant), there is an agreement on each side to reduce the other side to a caricature of one of these two forms. Centrists perpetually accuse post-avantists of being all head; post-avant poets perpetually accuse Centrists of being bleeding heart sentimentalists. However, these battles are often waged at the level of content. Where form is concerned, people tend to clam up, often because they lack knowledge of the formal mechanics of poetry. I want to posit a new possibility that has not, to my knowledge, heretofore been posited. What if someone were to put together post-avant, as a branch of avant-garde poetry (as it exists now), and formalism? What if someone were to kick open the door and declare the commensurability of form and intellect, of letting heart in the back door via a level of formal elegance, employing the architectural techniques of the avant-garde?
I have felt the need to justify to myself why, after all this time and several books, I keep coming back to form, feeding on it so to speak, now
that I know what I know. If the arbitrary nature of signs or signifiers means that we would
be foolhardy to trust in their transparency, does that negate lapidary
or ornamental usages of language? I don't think so. It is not as if Saussure
was the first thinker to point out the deficiencies of linguistic signs. John
Locke said roughly the same thing 120 years before Saussure, and the major
Romantics were all fluent in Locke. Yet the inquiries of someone like Coleridge
never threw in doubt for him that the organic unity of harmonious
metrical language was worth creating. Maybe, to bring it straight back to 2009,
poets of my generation are deciding that experimental poets over the past fifty
years have thrown out too much. Or, maybe there is no reason, I can just
get tautological and say I like formal poetry because I like it and
leave it at that. Tautological logic (a contradiction in terms) can be
surprisingly useful, even therapeutic. Why? Because the universe is
unfathomable, and poetry is part of the universe, and often few of us know why
we write what we write. It is no accident that Jack Spicer thought aliens
were dictating to him. At the center of each of us is a solid core of
emptiness, which we act out of.
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