TheThe Poetry
≡ Menu

How do you know when you’re “done” a poem? I’m not speaking about revision, but rather, the act of writing, particularly lyrical free verse. Donna Masini once described it to me (or a class I was in—can’t remember which), as a settling in the body: a literal sense in the poet’s body that there is no more to write. What a strange way to describe it—yet, I find it has been true with me. I’ll be sitting in front of a computer, write a line, and suddenly, intuitively, I know the poem is finished. It’s a sense of relief, that sighing experience when you’ve just removed a splinter (though the process of removing a poem from your body is usually more pleasurable. Grossman speaks about the silence from which a [...]

See more about Dottie Lasky's POETRY IS NOT A PROJECT here Get it at AWP while the ink is still wet. Available at the UDP portion of the "table X publishing commune."

What if I made you hear this as music
But not how you mean that. The slow beam
Opened me up. Walls walked through me
Like resonant waves. I thought that maybe
If you aren’t too busy, we could spend our lives
Parting in stations, promising to write
War and Peace, this time with feeling
As bullets leave their luminous traces across
Wait, I wasn’t finished, I was going to say
Breakwaters echo long lines of cloud

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

http://www.everyday-genius.com/2010/04/laura-carter.html
is this a poem? i don't know. i don't care. A) she's a poet and greying ghost put out a poetry chapbook of hers B) it's awesome and in terms of its approach to the idea of the lyric i'd say it's probably better than a deal of things i've read in verse. when i say better i want to qualify that: it is inventive and invigorating. inventive may not be the right word. but say this aloud. a lot.

[READ MORE]

A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
—Wallace Stevens, ‘Sunday Morning’

I reached a point where there was no
Use going on: my companion said, "Do not waken
The watchman, do not shout, he will die
Of shock if you make the slightest
Sound." I stood in the utter darkness,
Cold. Without evidence of myself.

Gallaher has managed to create a language all his own using English words. Reading his poems, I felt like I’d arrived on some other world where the linguistic building blocks were familiar, but the physics of assembling them was completely different, surprising, otherworldly.

[Poem of the Week: 4/2/2010]

This morning I couldn't get up I didn't want to get up I didn't get up in bed here I lay with the usual bloggy stuff to say, poetry etc. Window world a world apart, window world and widowed bed. I will not leave my bed alone. I will be here for it until I turn to stone. One day soon mineral will advance over me. One day soon I will be time's cartoon, flat as the handle of a spoon. Have I gone on too long? Ring the gong.

To honor the first day of National Poetry Month, I want to share this poem by Bill Wadsworth -- the progenitor of NPM, launched in 1996. Bill is an extraordinary writer, advocate and teacher of poetry -- I'm profoundly grateful for the work he's done and continues to do. (See full post for poem)

The time has come to reveal (I think) the source (for those who don't already know) of The The Poetry's name, namely, "The Man on the Dump" by Wallace Stevens.

We are in traditional ballad country the second Auden writes “As I Walked Out One Evening” (see “The Streets of Laredo”). He is not mocking the structure or form of the ballad (except perhaps the way a lover would tease his beloved); he is reveling in the cliche. He trusts his own ability to have fun with cliché (something Ashbery also trusts).

Concerning all the recent discussions about memory, recitation, etc, I thought I would try it in my own way. I should disclose that I never recite my own poems from memory at readings. I think it is corny, weird, it makes me uncomfortable, and frankly, to spend that much time memorizing your own work is kind of sick.

I’m currently in a class concerning Animal Studies in the Comparative Literature Department in which the word “anthropomorphism” is a swear word. The argument is that anthropomorphism is anthropocentric, and thereby undermines the possibilities of the animal’s consciousness by placing the human in a superior (and dominating) role. It should be noted that while I think this all well-argued and slightly interesting, when it comes to poetry—it’s a large load of nonsense. We’d have to knock out some pretty significant poems in our extended canon were we to castigate anthropomorphism the way they are proposing. At least for me, and for a long trailing history of ancestor poets behind me, anthropomorphism is the stuff I (we) live for. And if it’s a profane thing, then @#*& you, Comp Lit people. (It should also be noted I am the only poet in that class, and I am looked at at least twice during every session as if I were a really cool but leggy and crawly beetle that you’re grossed out by but can’t look away from.)