lives of the young poets

Politics was not our sole passion. We were even more attracted by literature, the arts, and philosophy. For me and for a few of my friends, poetry turned, if not into a public religion, at least into an esoteric cult wavering between the catacombs and the conspirators’ basement. I found no contradiction between poetry and revolution: they were two facets of the same movement, two wings of the same passion. This belief would link me later to the surrealists. The plural avidity: life and books, street and cell, bars and loneliness in crowds in cinemas.

—Octavio Paz, Itinerary (Harcourt, 1999), translated by Jason Wilson [33]

hard on the head

It certainly wasn’t concrete poetry…but it was obdurate to human understanding.

still talking

No matter how it started, no matter where it went, he could talk his way out of any poem.

wading into the waves

I know it's bad form when litmags don’t respond in a timely fashion. And there are egregious cases of litmags holding work for a year or more only to reject it. On the other side, I think of the first editor of Oxford English Dictionary, James Murray, and what he described as the 'undertow of words'. I’m not without some sympathy for those readers/screeners and editors wading into the waves of submissions.

this way always then that

The education of a poet is continuous and divergent.

all beat

You got the meter right but pity there was no poetry to pin to it.

lives of the poets

I thought of Chiang Yen who dreamed that Kuo P’o, long
dead, appeared and asked for his writing brush back, and
after he awoke Chiang Yen never wrote poems again.
-
I thought of Tsu Yung who, at his examination, wrote a
a poem of only four lines. Questioned by the examiner, he
replied: “That was all I had to say.”

—Eliot Weinberger, The Life of Tu Fu (New Directions, 2024)

[More excerpts over at Tramp Freighter.]

less than

A cento is always less than the sum of its parts.

stop short

Look for that preemptive ending that undercuts any temptation toward a grand concluding flourish.

all about me

Her poems were language selfies.

whip hand

Some just ride the poem; some hold the whip and will use it.

blank block

[This page unintentionally left blank.]

general glut

When submitting work ask if you’re contributing to a general literary glut.

no better or worse

A poem that could be endlessly revised and be no better for it.

slack line

Each week Muriel gave us writing as well as reading assignments, and we would go over class poems as well as poems by Whitman, Keats, Adrienne Rich, William Carlos Williams. Once when someone read a poem that had a very weak line, a line without much in it, Muriel called the line "slack," and we could see the line sagging there in the poem, without tension, nothing that an acrobat would trust her life to.

Then she said, “No one wants to read poetry. No one wants to!” (With her good-humored energetic pessimism that felt like optimism). “You have to make it impossible for them to put the poem down, impossible for them to stop reading it—word after word you have to keep them from closing the book. They want to close the book. And if it’s slack they’ll be able to—nothing says they have to read to the end. No one’s making them. And they don’t want to! They could be doing something else, like making a cheese sandwich! You have to make them want to go on reading with every word and every line.”

And Muriel said this cheerfully, the truth of it giving her voice energy. There was no whining in her about the place of poetry in America. It was just a reality, what was there for us to work with.

—Sharon Olds, “A Student’s Memoir of Muriel Rukeyser,” By Herself: Women Reclaim Poetry (Graywolf Press, 2020)

worse before it gets better

You could make this poem better by making it worse.

slippery poetry

Any poetry you can name, I can describe an opposite kind.

standard mistake

It’s common to mistake one’s taste for a standard.

face it

When it comes to poetry. all genre considerations are off.

prune it back

As in gardening so it is in poetry, one should not be afraid to cut back the growth.

nice nice

No one seems to want to call out a bad poem.

pure presence

a poem is something in the midst of a white plane
fenced in by itself and enclosed by the surface of its lines.
although it has forgotten where and how it came to be,
it is no lost soul
[…]
a pure presence
each poem is a shell around a kernel possibly invented
each poem is a translation of the one poem that exists only in translation
each poem is its own condition
a poem is that which declares itself to be a poem

—Jutta Schutting, the start and ending of “Poems,” from In der Sprache der Inseln, Contemporary Austrian Poetry (Fairleigh Dickinson U. Press, 1986), edited and translated by Beth Bjorklund

seen via envy

Parody is jealousy with an illuminating purpose.

show 'em hell

After their first portfolios were turned in, the creative writing teacher thought one of the students must have misheard the admonishment “Show, don’t tell,” as “Show ‘em hell.”