January 10, 2012
"

Menial work is an insult to the spirit. ‘When I see men carrying heavy loads, doing brutal work, it always makes me want to cry,’ said a beautiful, cultured woman to me.


‘When you say that, it makes me want to beat you,’ said I, in reply. ‘When I see you with your beautiful head pondering heavy thoughts, I just want to hit you. It outrages me.

"

— D.H. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature (London: Penguin), 1923, repr. 1977, 92

January 9, 2012
09.01.12

It was like
You were underwater
I found some pebbles
And scraps of you.

The sun is brighter when you are not here
The cold it hurts when you are not here
The leaves fall in their dozens
And the clock is on mute

I climb the hills every morning.
I gave up caring about sharing these things
And I gave up thinking that like wolves
Or vultures we mate for life.

We fall back against the calendar.
Moonrise is death and waiting.
Don’t make me hate you.
I’m trying so hard not to hate you

In my past is a space
And it is pulling in my future.

1:46pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZEI8BxEVngDg
  
Filed under: lit poetry unfinished 
January 7, 2012
07.01.12 (#2)

Youth is fulfilled –
The problems strangers have
with my bedroom door

What it is –
The wind and the rain
which hold back the sun

There are children indoors,
but when they see us
my whole world could crumble

So is this -
Staying. Keeping. All still.
No sound. And love.

We stay in our rooms
until the sun can rise

7:22am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZEI8BxEOTc9e
  
Filed under: poetry lit bedtime 
December 29, 2011
After Paul Henry

I was trying. Don’t doubt I was trying.

Always we are falling down inside our small boxes.

And spinning on the floor

Like grotesques

It sometimes occurs to me

That’s there not much to see

And it sometimes happens

When the world opens

A child on a rock. Páiste. Carraig.

The big bird swoops down and

The bones rattle on the windows and

and this is what I mean.

Other times.

Other times I listen to the moonlight

          in the rain on the window.

Fuinneog.

Tar isteach. Suigh síos.

There are no days.

Blessed be the mountains which reach up to the heavens.

Blessed be the rivers and the rivers.

December 13, 2011
13.12.11

Rough after rough after rough

And a volley

And slide

And


We’re back in the game.

With a blow. And crushing.

After a setback.

After a dropdead and a

Breakbeat.

St-

I don’t know how

Stac-

Stacatto.

Rhythm, ringing. Rhythm ringing.

After rough. After rough. After


Pacing the floor. First one way –

Second one way third one way.

Oh I can hear the

Shining shiny terrible

Deliberations you are taking.


I will be your shuttlecock.

I will be your long, hot

Winter and your short sweet summer and

If or when we make it,

This cold era

Will be a leaf falling from a branch

To signal the rites of autumn.


Or death.

Swept away.

Or one of the other images.

And I know

These images

Fill you up bright and powerful

December 12, 2011
21.11.11 (#4)

I am all of me for you

What we do, what we are,

is all for you


My heart unto your chest

My work unto your hands

My words upon your lips

And eyes upon your face

I am interrupted with your breath


What type is borne upon your page

Was brought there by my hand


I follow you down

What lasted in the end

Was all my memories in your head

I follow you down.

9:10pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZEI8BxDAEk2F
  
Filed under: lit poetry 
November 9, 2011
"Mines in the same ground meet by tunneling."

— Emily Dickinson

1:42pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZEI8BxBiMxwI
Filed under: emily dickinson lit 
October 22, 2011
"Always wanting to merge himself into the womb of something or other."

D.H Lawrence on Walt Whitman

Studies in Classical American Literature (London: Penguin, 1921 repr. 1961), 176

September 11, 2011
The Nothing That Is Not There

When it’s hard to get through the week without another half-wit/tabloid mindlessly using the slogan ‘Big Brother Is Watching You’, I think ‘George Orwell has a lot to answer for.’ But when I see the abuse of the English language in so called ‘high-brow’ press, I think, ‘academia has a lot to answer for.’ Namely, in not reading Politics and the English Language.

The latest PoemTalk podcast (slowly taking over my life) features the Canadian poet Fred Wah walking in halfway through a discussion of his poem Race, To Go (read here and listened here). It’s a good enough poem which creates wordplay between food and race. It’s angry and personal, and like I say, it’s good. It’s not great.

So Wah walks in and Al Filreas asks his other three guests if they have any last thoughts. This is what Lisa Robertson, another Canadian poet, has to say (or not say) for herself:

One of the things I absolutely love about this poem is the way it repeats these really banal racial slurs and clichés that would be very typical and still in many Canadians’ speech happening at the level of meals et cetera, but in taking up these slurs and jabs and turning them around into a melodic orality so I’m interested in how this poem is running with orality as a charged political speech and how the power of this oral reappropriation of everyday racial interpolation is carving out an alternative agency.

I mean, really. So maybe it’s unfair to take this from, here we go again, an ‘oral’ recording rather than a drafted essay. But really I’m only trying to play devil’s advocate because my word, what a mess. Not that any of it makes any sense, but kudos to whoever can figure out what the phrase ‘alternative agency’ especially means.

And this is what George Orwell had to say for himself, sixty-five years ago:

The writer either has a meaning and cannot express it, or he inadvertently says something else, or he is almost indifferent as to whether his words mean anything or not.

So these three of his six rules seem especially pertinent to Robertson:

 (ii) Never use a long word where a short one will do.

(iii) If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.

(iv) Never use the passive where you can use the active.

Do your homework. Learn to speak like a human being. Because this kind of talk is the reason kids hate poetry, hate comprehension. Maybe they always have and always will, but I promise that you are not helping.

I’m of half a mind to send this to her. Or maybe her editor.

Wah I don’t see what’s so difficult [Laughter]

Al Filreas About the poetry? Or about getting to that utopian thing where you chatter and we warm?

Wah To tell you the truth, I have no idea what’s going on here.

September 9, 2011
"On general principles, this magazine expects to take a firm stand against murder."

— The first issue of The New Yorker, 1925

8:58pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZEI8Bx9KHKnF
  
Filed under: The New Yorker satire 
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