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  • Titus Toledo @12:14AM, 2016-12-28 Share | Link |
    Tags: ben lerner, , Poetry   

    The Hatred of Poetry 

    “I think there are a lot of good and great poems that manage to do what they want to do. But part of the persistent sense that poems are always failing to live up to the expectation of the historical moment has to do with how “poetry” less denotes a stable set of practices than it does a set of impossible demands. I’m not saying this is true for everyone or for all time, but I think it’s an interesting structure of feeling worth thinking through. The main demand associated with lyric poetry is that an individual poet can or must produce both a song that’s irreducibly individual—it’s the expression of their specific humanity, because it’s this intense, internal experience—and that is also shareable by everyone, because it can be intelligible to all social persons, so it can unite a community in its difference. And that demand, I think, is impossible. It wants a poem to do something that only a revolution could do—to eradicate different kinds of inequality and social differences and violence.” —Ben Lerner

    Via The Paris Review

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  • Spread @12:46AM, 2016-08-08 Share | Link |
    Tags: juan gelman, Poetry   

    Juan Gelman’s “Oxen Rage” 

    Remarkably few volumes of poetry by Juan Gelman have been translated into English. This is perhaps because of the unique challenges inherent in translating his work, known for its neologisms, playful and musical language, and political exploitation of ambiguity — Gelman once wrote to his translator, Lisa Rose Bradford, “To be sure is a sickness of our times.” Yet, as a poet who turned to translation to broaden his creative resources, Gelman’s work, I would argue, is not resistant to translation but rather uniquely receptive to it — provided the translator has the guts to tinker with one of the most influential Spanish-language poets of the twentieth century.

    Read the rest from: Jacket2

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  • Spread @2:28AM, 2016-07-28 Share | Link |
    Tags: confessional poetry, Poetry, twilight zone   

    Confessional Poetry & the Twilight Zone 

    Emily is a coward, but more importantly she’s selfish. She spends her days worrying. She’s had brushes with every life-threatening disease out there. Maybe her cowardice comes from her selfishness, or vice versa. She marries Wilfred, a greedy man, and they have two kids whose flaws are so self-evident they might as well be named Vanity and Sloth. With that, the trap has been set. We don’t know what we’re getting ourselves into, but it’s too late. The deep voice and the cigarette smoke have already ambled onto the screen, intoning, “This is New Orleans, Mardi Gras time. It is also The Twilight Zone.”

    Read the rest from Jake Orbison, The Paris Review

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  • Spread @6:03AM, 2016-07-13 Share | Link |
    Tags: , , neruda, , Poetry   

    Neruda @112 

    neruda
     
    Sonnet XVII
    by Pablo Neruda

    I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
    or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
    I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
    in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

    I love you as the plant that never blooms
    but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
    thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
    risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

    I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
    I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
    so I love you because I know no other way

    than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
    so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
    so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

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  • Spread @2:26AM, 2016-07-09 Share | Link |
    Tags: Poetry, , scientific method   

    There Is No Scientific Method 

    In 1970, I had the chance to attend a lecture by Stephen Spender. He described in some detail the stages through which he would pass in crafting a poem. He jotted on a blackboard some lines of verse from successive drafts of one of his poems, asking whether these lines (a) expressed what he wanted to express and (b) did so in the desired form. He then amended the lines to bring them closer either to the meaning he wanted to communicate or to the poetic form of that communication.

    I was immediately struck by the similarities between his editing process and those associated with scientific investigation and began to wonder whether there was such a thing as a scientific method. Maybe the method on which science relies exists wherever we find systematic investigation. In saying there is no scientific method, what I mean, more precisely, is that there is no distinctly scientific method.

    There is meaning, which we can grasp and anchor in a short phrase, and then there is the expression of that meaning that accounts for it, whether in a literal explanation or in poetry or in some other way. Our knowledge separates into layers: Experience provides a base for a higher layer of more conceptual understanding. This is as true for poetry as for science.

    Read the rest from The New York Times

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  • Titus Toledo @12:57AM, 2016-05-23 Share | Link |
    Tags: ben vida, concrete poem, Poetry   

    Ben Vida’s “Speech Acts” 

    Ben Vida’s recent exhibition at Lisa Cooley Gallery, “[Smile on.] … [Pause.] … [Smile off.],” included a series of what the author calls Speech Acts, inspired by concrete poetry. Intended to be recited in a duo vocal performance, the speech acts capture all the pauses, false starts, stammers, and disfluencies of conversation: all the spoken detritus usually omitted in transcripts.

    Read the rest from The Paris Review

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  • Titus Toledo @12:50AM, 2016-05-23 Share | Link |
    Tags: kate tempest, , Poetry, spoken word   

    Kate Tempest’s “Progress” 

    Kate Tempest performs her poem ‘Progress’

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  • Titus Toledo @12:24AM, 2016-05-04 Share | Link |
    Tags: andre breton, despair, , Poetry, to be   

    The Verb to Be 

    André Breton’s poem “The Verb to Be” originally appeared in The Paris Review Spring 1985 issue.

    I know the general outline of despair. Despair has no wings, it doesn’t necessarily sit at a cleared table in the evening on a terrace by the sea. It’s despair and not the return of a quantity of insignificant facts like seeds that leave one furrow for another at nightfall. It’s not the moss that forms on a rock or the foam that rocks in a glass. It’s a boat riddled with snow, if you will, like birds that fall and their blood doesn’t have the slightest thickness. I know the general outline of despair. A very small shape, defined by jewels worn in the hair. That’s despair. A pearl necklace for which no clasp can be found and whose existence can’t even hang by a thread. That’s despair for you. Let’s not go into the rest. Once we begin to despair we don’t stop. I myself despair of the lampshade around four o’clock, I despair of the fan towards midnight, I despair of the cigarette smoked by men on death row. I know the general outline of despair. Despair has no heart, my hand always touches breathless despair, the despair whose mirrors never tell us if it’s dead. I live on that despair which enchants me. I love that blue fly which hovers in the sky at the hour when the stars hum. I know the general outline of the despair with long slender surprises, the despair of pride, the despair of anger. I get up every day like everyone else and I stretch my arms against a floral wallpaper. I don’t remember anything and it’s always in despair that I discover the beautiful uprooted trees of night. The air in the room is as beautiful as drumsticks. What weathery weather. I know the general outline of despair. It’s like the curtain’s wind that holds out a helping hand. Can you imagine such a despair? Fire! Ah they’re on their way … Help! Here they come falling down the stairs … And the ads in the newspaper, and the illuminated signs along the canal. Sandpile, beat it, you dirty sandpile! In its general outline despair has no importance. It’s a squad of trees that will eventually make a forest, it’s a squad of stars that will eventually make one less day, it’s a squad of one­-less-­days that will eventually make up my life.

    Translated from the French by Bill Zavatsky and Zack Rogow.

    Hat tip: The Paris Review

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  • Rosendo Makabali @2:02AM, 2016-04-12 Share | Link |
    Tags: , Poetry   

    Forget I ever crossed your lifetime 

    rosendo_makabali_forget
    “Forget I ever crossed your lifetime” by Rosendo M. Makabali

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  • Spread @4:13AM, 2015-12-11 Share | Link |
    Tags: , emily dickenson, , Poetry   

    Called Back 

    Emily Dickinson published only ten poems. Printed in various newspapers, her verses all appeared anonymously. It was not some failure of contemporary taste but her own decision that kept the rest of her poetry private. Dickinson wrote in one poem that “Publication—is the Auction / Of the Mind of Man—” and indeed she seems to have felt there was something crass, even violative about fixing one’s words in a particular arrangement of type, surrendering them for a price.

    Read the rest from The Paris Review

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  • Titus Toledo @2:07AM, 2015-10-22 Share | Link |
    Tags: charles bukowski, , Poetry   

    We are here to drink beer 

    bukowski

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  • Rosendo Makabali @6:32AM, 2015-07-22 Share | Link |
    Tags: , Poetry   

    Music, Man 

    By Rosendo Makabali

    I have so much music in my head

    But not one song I can sing in tune

    And not one I know all the words to

    I might have been listening too long

    To the night, for instruction, scaling

    Only the mute score of stars and moon

    Or I might have been sitting too long

    In the sun among bug, bird, and beast

    Articulating their howls and sighs

    My career in church choirs, as a boy,

    Was mercifully short; the rock band

    I toured with hit the charts when I left

    I was forced to retire from the bar

    Circuit to save half of a duo

    I still pay my dues at bathroom solos

    Perhaps I still might find use for all

    That jazz – if I write and play my own

    In the key and voice of my heart
     

    copyright 2006 by Rosendo M Makabali

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  • Titus Toledo @2:53AM, 2015-07-14 Share | Link |
    Tags: , , , Poetry   

    Poetry Mathematics 

    nos

    2.1. ( a ) What is literal in poetry must be in some significant way (aspect, regard) incomplete, so that there is no complete discernable literal proposition. ( b ) This is a feature of the idea that poetry, as its mathematics, must be both incomprehensible and incontrovertible.

    2.2. Poetry differs from nonsense in being incontrovertible.
    It cannot be proved to be nonsense, that nothing is being said.

    2.3. The classics are static. They do not change.

    2.4. A greater amount of emotion is the effect of a greater
    work of art.

    2.5. No one is capable of understanding poetry except for
    the poet.

    2.6. My actions mimic yours. This is what is known
    as meter.

    2.7. “Form” is what we call the appearance of chaos.

    —Read the rest from thebatterseareview.com

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  • Spread @2:20AM, 2015-05-04 Share | Link
    Tags: , , , Poetry, , underground   

    spread#18 (bust) now out! 

    49

    Bust open the heart and mind with thought and visual blitzkrieg by Augusto De Luca, Piotr Dumala, Bob Farrell, Ross Van Gogh, Etienne Gros, Theo Jansen, Wolfgang & Christoph Lauenstein, Jerry Levitan & Co., Rosendo M Makabali, Harry Morris, Sierra Nevada, Victor Gabriel Ojeda, Papa Osmubal, Titus Toledo, Jerry Vilhotti, Beth Wittenberg, and Zolloc…

    *here: spread#18 [bust]

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  • Spread @7:18AM, 2014-12-04 Share | Link |
    Tags: mark strand, Poetry   

    by giving yourself over to nothing,

    you shall be healed

    –mark strand

    here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179137

    hat tip: @dongmakabali

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  • Titus Toledo @3:26AM, 2014-10-11 Share | Link |
    Tags: , , laurie anderson, , Poetry   

    Laurie Anderson 

    “The purpose of death is the release of love.” —Laurie Anderson

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