Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Been long, and many rows, a shark's mouth of things, really, become Fall, and now post-fall, winter's preface. My electronic Isabell, seven years old ( 139 computer years ), refuses electronic embracing, now is dormant along with my will to get her de-wintered.
I had meant to list some hot debate moments:
ROM: "Migrating bird act" / "renewables" / "He isn't Mr. Oil, Mr. Coal, Mr. Wind, Mr. Gas" / "This is a nation of immigrants" / "currency manipulators" / "We can't kill ourselves out of this one" / "we interrupt them" / "responsible" / "we want a peaceful planet" / "responsibility has fallen to america"
BAR: "We saw adrift" / "which loophole are you gonna close?" / "gangbangers" / "when folks mess with americans we will hunt them down" / "I am the one who greets those coffins" / "those who killed us"
I had meant to give a report from the field of Nashville's Southern Festival of Books:
Scampered my quiet to, Nico morning, on everywhere, things above my lungs, I cawed and bit the space near my head. & inside, people in clothes, and me, a hidden cigarette butt in my bag. We are working on pieces of longing. We can undo pieces of language, or do, and no more, covering, a place, which is to say, relocating. Awhile-region, voids.
Clay Matthews was simply bronson. Notes of Ben Learner ( A of Yaw ) in his writing. Adam Vines read some good stuff from his Coal book.
I had meant to tell of the books now, of the music too:
Reading about Eskimos of Thule. And reading Whitman. I blame Pitch Perfect. And Freaks and Geeks. And my Beefheart.
And getting a poem, "Episodes, of mouth," to Cricket Online Review's next thang. How grand they are. Volume VIII, No. II, due before the end of the year.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
James Franco is a Marlon Brando sometimes. I will commence to use 'Brando' as a synonym for 'dope' ( noun, verb, adj ). This is Brando:
I hear Kimya, Patsy, Kath Bloom, Jimmie Rodgers in there ( ! )
Southern Festival of Books is soon to be roll into Nashville like a carnival ( sure to be other ), presentations, discussions, readings. Over at Lipscomb. Friday, Saturday, Sunday.
I don't, on the whole, agree with the bloke ( he objects to a supposed simplification to the whole of poetry into simple dichotomy - traditional/ experimental - within anthologized poetry ... ), but I find this textured with horses, months of horses: "As the radical tendency became more and more institutionalised the writing within it has increasingly catered to an academic market demand. To me much of it now seems like a narrowing, at worst a betrayal ..."
Riley wants a solutionesque poetry that yields, not one of parts, but of wholes: "Disruption and problematisation are terms of praise here, as if we didn’t already have enough of both of them to cope with in the world..." That mirroring, that play between banks, and that happens on the water holding them to each other, the water being the thing that carries a relation of all the thingness of things in and on the water. Often, in this a time of woe decrepitude, a legitimate photo of the world does not arrive with praise, heavy with agency, or over-infatuation of the fracas from which it is derived. Riley wants a phenomenological absence in language, vessel to be through, but not itself, vessel to carry that not effect the carrying?
Plus the review reads like a whine, fundamentally, on the state of poetry america. And the schools ( both as coteries, and institutions whose function in Poetry is so skeletal I dismay).
I want to mention Arielle Greenberg's article on 'Hybrid' poetics from the last American Poetry Review, go read it a bit. She wants more out of poetry, formal category smearing, intermedia things, cross-utility things, things that become, in their artistic actualization, finality, not-things. Unfortunately, until APR figures out that placing more of their content online could work too, you gotta go read it in meat-space.
Monday, October 1, 2012
I have a baby plant ( though plants seem timeless and, thus, are never baby ), a succulent the Gambler brought upon me at the yard sale yestermorning. I cried 'Ezmerelda' and thusly she named according to my semiotic whim. It looks like Henry Kissinger, who was a baby when he was a baby.
"There are no isolated events." -Henry Kissinger
Zeitgeist, fall, transient both, but both here now. Zeitgeist will soon be disintegrated into a thousand shiny condos. How grand. Good chat with Lain York ( whose intricate statements surface other surface just below lake site atop deteriorate constructing palimpsests have been a staple of my experience of there ) on Nashville's art and re-locating the hierarchies of access to it ( gallery / warehouse : 'SoBro' / outlying areas ), ArtWalk, Hilsboro's business-integrating-art temperament, and ArtCrawl's art-integrating-business skew.
Missed National ( Poetry ) Book Award winner Nicky Finney read at Vanderbilt the other week, puke on me.
Djuna Barnes' Nightwood,
Complete Poems of Hart Crane ( ed. Waldo Frank ),
Jimmy Carter's Always a Reckoning ( ! )