The poem has many rooms, corridors, and closets.
2.28.2007
2.27.2007
a new york school poet
A New York School poet seems convinced his random musings and casual observations are more interesting than your (the reader's) stray thoughts, sightings and overhearings.
Labels:
musings,
new york school,
overheard,
random
2.25.2007
locked within the dictionary
I saw the poem locked within the dictionary, and I cut away until it was set free. (after Michelangelo)
Labels:
dictionary,
michelangelo,
set free,
where poems come from,
words
2.21.2007
always astonished
I was a poet animated by philosophy, not a philosopher with poetic faculties. I loved to admire the beauty of things, to trace the imperceptible through the minute the poetic soul of the universe.
—Fernando Pessoa, Always Astonished (City Lights Books, 1988), translated by Edwin Honig
—Fernando Pessoa, Always Astonished (City Lights Books, 1988), translated by Edwin Honig
Labels:
beauty,
fernando pessoa,
imperceptible,
philosopher,
poetic faculties,
quote,
soul,
things,
universe
2.19.2007
my best professors
My best professors were proprietors of used bookshops.
Labels:
academy,
books,
professors,
used bookshop
2.16.2007
'surrhetorical' poetry
The poetry of Gertrude Stein could be called ‘surrhetorical’.
Labels:
gertrude stein,
neologism,
surrhetorical
2.13.2007
2.11.2007
2.10.2007
what is the good of critiquing a forest
I have a friend who has an early Leaves of Grass edition and
inscribed on the flyleaf, in Whitman's hand, is this quote:
"We critique a palace or a cathedral, but what is the good of critiquing a
forest?"
inscribed on the flyleaf, in Whitman's hand, is this quote:
"We critique a palace or a cathedral, but what is the good of critiquing a
forest?"
Labels:
cathedral,
criticism,
critque,
flyleaf,
forest,
insription,
quote,
walt whitman
2.09.2007
2.08.2007
2.06.2007
2.04.2007
that damn line again
[F]requently in the course of delivering himself of a poem, a poet will find himself in possession of a lyric bauble—a line as smooth as velvet to the ear, as pretty as a feather to the eye, yet a line definitely out of plumb with the frame of the poem. What to do with a trinket like this is always troubling to a poet, who is naturally grateful to his Muse for small favors. Usually he just drops the shining object into the body of the poem somewhere and hopes it won’t look too giddy.
—E. B. White, “Unzip the Veil,” ONE MAN’S MEAT, p146
—E. B. White, “Unzip the Veil,” ONE MAN’S MEAT, p146
2.01.2007
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