recentpopularlog in

robertogreco : poems   168

« earlier  
David Berman, Slacker God
"Remember those postadolescent days when a work of art could make your heart thump? Remember the physical symptoms of infatuation? Before your tastes ossified?

The book had been given to me by my sister, given to her by her friend Shannon, given to Shannon by who knows who. Back then, before the internet became the recommendation engine it is today, media were passed from hand to hand like samizdat. Your friend would show up at your apartment and give you a book. And then you’d read whatever it was without knowing anything else about it. It was like in movies when the characters take drugs together and one joker says, See you on the other side. You didn’t know what was going to happen, but it was going to be an adventure. You would feel things and you would be changed."
information  davidberman  2019  books  art  recommendations  audiencesofone  media  samizdat  internet  online  web  sharing  erinsomers  poetry  poems  life  living  actualair 
9 days ago by robertogreco
The Book That Made Me: An Animal | Public Books
"The Lives of Animals was the first book I read in college—or at least the first book I read in a strange, amazing seminar that rewired my brain in the first semester of freshman year. The course was about animals, and I signed up for it probably because it was a course my dad, who had been advising me on all things college, would have taken himself. He kept animal effigies all over the apartment: portraits of a donkey and a marmot in the bathroom; a giant poster of “The External Structure of Cock and Chicken” in the living room; dog figures of many breeds; pigs, his favorite, in all shapes and sizes, in every single nook and cranny. In the dining room he had a huge pig sculpture made of leather, which in retrospect was a strange and morbid combination: one animal skinned to make an image of another. Our cocker spaniel had chewed its face beyond recognition by the time my mom got around to throwing it out.

My dad passed away in 2016, two years after they got divorced, and I faced the monumental task of disposing of his menagerie. I kept many things, of course, but couldn’t keep them all. It was so easy to throw out or donate clothes, housewares, furniture, even books. I didn’t know what to do with the creatures, who seemed to contain his spirit more than anything else. I laughed when I found a key chain in a random drawer: a little brass effigy of one pig mounting another. That was his humor. That was his mind, his way of seeing, his culture—which was based, like all cultures, in certain ideas about nature. Frankly, he was a difficult man to know even when he was alive. The animals offered me a way in, as they probably did for him.

Anyway, he was the one who saw the listing for a course named “Zooësis” and thought I might like it. And I really did, from the moment our indefatigably brilliant professor, Una Chaudhuri, asked us to read J. M. Coetzee’s weird, hybrid book. The Lives of Animals is a novella, but Coetzee delivered it as a two-part Tanner Lecture at Princeton in 1997, and it centers, in turn, on two lectures delivered by its aging novelist protagonist, Elizabeth Costello. During her visit to an obscure liberal arts college, she speaks hard-to-swallow truths about the cruelties we visit upon animals, making a controversial analogy between industrialized farming and the Third Reich. But the content of her lectures is almost less important than the reactions they generate and the personal consequences she incurs, which Coetzee shows us by nesting the lectures within a fictional frame. People get incensed; the academic establishment rebukes her argument, her way of arguing, everything she represents. Even her family relationships buckle under the weight of a worldview that seems to reject reason.

Her first lecture is about the poverty of philosophy, both as a basis for animal ethics and as a medium for thinking one’s way into the mind of another kind of creature. But her second lecture is about the potential of poetry, and it’s captivating in its optimism about the ability of human language to imagine radically nonhuman forms of sensory experience—or, perhaps more radically, forms of sensory experience we share with other species.

As a person who has worked within the field commonly known as animal studies but has never worked with real animals (unlike so many great boundary-crossing thinkers: the late poet-philosopher-veterinarian Vicki Hearne, the philosopher-ethologist Vinciane Despret, et al.), I often find myself bummed out by the inadequacy of representation: Specifically, what good are animals in books? Are they not inevitably vessels of human meaning? In Flush, her novel about the inner life of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s cocker spaniel, Virginia Woolf has another way of putting the problem: “Do words say everything? Can words say anything? Do not words destroy the symbol that lies beyond the reach of words?” To which I would add: Do they not destroy, or at least ignore, the creature beyond the symbol as well?

Coetzee has a different view. Or Costello, at least, has some different ideas about what poetry can do. She celebrates poems like Ted Hughes’s “The Jaguar” and Rainer Maria Rilke’s “The Panther”—“poetry that does not try to find an idea in the animal, that is not about the animal, but is instead the record of an engagement with him.” She finds value in poems that try to capture the fluid complexity of a moment of contact across species, rather than try to preserve an imagined essence of the animal in amber. She also defends the human imagination as something more powerful than we give it credit for. My favorite line from the book is her response to Thomas Nagel’s famous essay “What Is It Like to Be a Bat?” Nagel insists that it’s impossible for a human to know the answer to his titular question. Costello rebuts: “If we are capable of thinking our own death, why on earth should we not be capable of thinking our way into the life of a bat?” I think it takes an effort of heart, more than mind, to follow her train of thought.

The novella reflects her resistance to the imperious voice of human reason—and her embrace of the messiness of the subjective imagination—on many levels. She’s uneasy at the bully pulpit, as was Coetzee himself. For the longest time I thought that the narrator was omniscient—an impersonal God figure aligned with Coetzee’s own position at that Princeton lectern. But then I read the novella again, preparing to teach it in a lit class where we were also reading Jane Austen. I realized that the narrator filters everything through the perspective of John Bernard, Costello’s son, who has a strange tendency to obsess over his mother’s body (paging Dr. Freud: “Her shoulders stoop; her flesh has grown flabby”) and profoundly ambivalent feelings about her. He is torn between sympathy and repulsion, connection and alienation. He is torn, also, between her perspective, which persuades him to an extent, and the perspective of his wife, Norma, a philosophy professor who loathes her and has no patience for her anti-rationalist message.

The question this novella raises is always that of its own construction: Why is it a novella in the first place? What does Coetzee communicate through fiction that he couldn’t have communicated through a polemic? I think the technique of focalization, which grounds everything in John’s perspective, shows us exactly what an abstract polemic about animals couldn’t: the impossibility of speaking from a position outside our embodiment, our emotions, our primordial and instinctual feelings toward kin. In other words, the impossibility of speaking about animals as though we were not animals ourselves.

Every time I read the book—definitely every time I teach it—the potentialities of its form grow in number. I find new rooms in the house of fiction that reveal how grand a mansion it is. I display it proudly, in the center of a bookshelf lined with animal books like Marian Engel’s Bear, Woolf’s Flush, J. R. Ackerley’s My Dog Tulip, Kafka’s stories, and John Berger’s Pig Earth. The shelf is my own version of my father’s menagerie, brimming with all manner of complex and contradictory creatures. All of them are representations, but that doesn’t make them feel any less real, or any less alive.

I regard my father with some of the ambivalence that John, the son in Coetzee’s story, feels toward his own mother and her thoughts on animals. But I encounter the creatures he left behind with warmth, solidarity, and hope."
via:timoslimo  jmcoetzee  multispecies  morethanhuman  senses  writing  howwewrite  language  whywewrite  fiction  animals  bodies  unachaudhuri  philosophy  elizabethbarrettbrowning  virginiawoolf  vincianedespret  animalrights  vickihearne  rainermariarilke  tedhughes  narration  thomasnagel  imagination  messiness  janeausten  perspective  novellas  kafka  johnberger  marianengel  jrackerley  hope  solidarity  communication  embodiment  emotions  persuasion  mattmargini  canon  books  reading  howweread  teaching  howweteach  farming  livestock  sensory  multisensory  animalstudies  poetry  poems  complexity  grief  literature  families  2019 
6 weeks ago by robertogreco
Muni Poetry - Nine Haikus | Arts and Culture | thebaycitybeacon.com
"Muni Haikus

This nineteen bus
Went out of service again
Stop barfing in there

Market Street Railway
Dreamy cream green streamliner
Embarcadero

Ocean Beach in June
Waiting for the twenty three
My ass is frozen

Mission red carpet
Fourteen is so much faster
Fuck your parking spot

Unhoused family
Sharing the back bench all night
Their baby is safe

Streetcars have a bell:
“Ding ding, ding ding!” And a horn:
“Move, Motherfucker!”

Escalator broke
in Civic Center and every
elevator reeks

J Lurch, K Lied
L Terri-ble and N Judas
M Motion-less, T turd."
muni  poems  poetry  haiku  mcallen  2019  publictransit  transportation  sanfrancisco 
may 2019 by robertogreco
#59 – Spring 2018 | Rattle: Poetry
[via: https://www.rattle.com/final-portrait-of-the-sudanese-by-dalia-elhassan/

"Dalia Elhassan

FINAL PORTRAIT OF THE SUDANESE

my parents sit side by side
in the half-light

two bodies, a half-world
away from me, singing

the way only sudanis know
how to.

[image: eDalia]

shuf al-zaman ya yuma
sayignee ba’eed khalas

look at this time, oh mama,
it’s taking me so far

on the uptown 6 train
my father—in sudan

—calls to ask us how we’re doing
are you okay? how’s your mother?

my mother, in the bronx,
waiting for her children

to come home,
to learn her mother’s language,

i swallowed two other languages
before downing my own

gutted my throat
of any accent

spent years tearing
up maps of africa

trying to rub the sandalwood
musk from behind my ears

i don’t bother to learn
the songs my parents sing,

instead i write poems,
about our hyphenated bodies

about the frankincense smoke
dancing on hot coal

about their hands
that never touch

and all the ways
i hardly recognize them.

—from Rattle #59, Spring 2018
Tribute to Immigrant Poets"
poetry  immigration  migration  poems  sudan  immigrants  memory  generations  loss 
april 2019 by robertogreco
Safia Elhillo | Poetry Foundation
"Safia Elhillo is the author of The January Children (University of Nebraska Press, 2017), which received the 2016 Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets and a 2018 Arab American Book Award, and the chapbook The Life and Times of Susie Knuckles (2012). With Fatimah Asghar, she is co-editor of the anthology Halal If You Hear Me (Haymarket Books, forthcoming 2019).

Sudanese by way of Washington, DC, Elhillo earned a BA from NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study and an MFA in poetry at the New School. Her work has appeared in several journals and anthologies, including The BreakBeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop (2015) and Women of Resistance: Poems for a New Feminism (2018).

Elhillo was a founding member of Slam NYU, the 2012 and 2013 national collegiate championship team, and was a three-time member and former coach of the DC Youth Slam Poetry team. Her work has been translated into several languages and commissioned by Under Armour and the Bavarian State Ballet. A Cave Canem fellow, she is the co-winner of the the 2015 Brunel International African Poetry Prize, and has been listed in Forbes Africa's "30 Under 30." In 2018, Elhillo was awarded a Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellowship from the Poetry Foundation."

[See links to poems, prose, etc. at bottom.]

[See also:
http://safia-mafia.com/

and an interview
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/podcasts/146767/safia-elhillo-vs-shame ]
safiaelhillo  poetry  poems 
april 2019 by robertogreco
Poems of Muslim Faith and Islamic Culture | Poetry Foundation
"A collection of poems, prose, and audio and video recordings that explore Islamic culture.


These poems and features examine Muslim faith and Islamic culture and address important events, holidays, and occasions such as Ramadan. These poets explore a range of spiritual, literary, and political concerns from the 6th century to the present day. Some poets’ voices emerge from the East (Mahmoud Darwish and Saadi Youssef), others from the West (June Jordan and Thomas Merton). Most turn to poetry as the ideal forum to complicate simplistic East-West divisions—learning, questioning, sparking cultural conversation, and speaking from what Nomi Stone calls “[t]his quiet voice that is borrowed or my own.”"
islam  poetry  poems  prose  audio  video 
april 2019 by robertogreco
Muni Poetry - Hooray for the Buses (36 Teresita) | Arts and Culture | thebaycitybeacon.com
"Hooray for the Buses (36 Teresita)

“Hooray for the Buses” was the title of a flyer the Miraloma Park Improvement Club distributed in advance of the opening of a new bus line in the neighborhood.

Your first inbound stop
is the same first stop
for inbound babies
at St Luke's Maternity ward.
Same terminal transfer point to under hill
as folks outbound at Laguna Honda too.

Your first operator was the Mayor
and your inauguration followed
in the wake of a marching
Drum Corps, Bugle Corps,
Parkside Post Legion plus the Municipal Band
and a bicycle parade.

A panoramic drive,
sometimes Sutro fills your windscreen,
a city view, a sea view, a sky view,
cross over Portola, snake
along your namesake street
or in daylight climb a prominent spur.

Teresita you keep secrets too,
an old name and an old number,
a secret stop you almost always skip.
In eighty years what whispers
have you heard but buried
under a blanket of fog?

Ply the highest prominences of the City,
Twin Peaks and Mount Davidson and Mount Sutro.
Serve spectacular scenes but also
connect neighborhoods and
humbly serve daily passengers,
commuters still need to get to work.

A young boy might be riding to school,
An elder may need to get to the doctor,
A pilgrim may need to get to the cross,
A wedding party is going to the conservatory,
be right on time for their transfers!
This is not your last stop."

[See also:

"Muni Poetry: Spectacle of the Turn (33 Stanyan)"
https://www.thebaycitybeacon.com/culture/muni-poetry-spectacle-of-the-turn-stanyan/article_193daebe-4f43-11e9-bcff-13b286542f0f.html

"Muni Poetry - Sky Line (25 Treasure Island)"
https://www.thebaycitybeacon.com/culture/muni-poetry---sky-line-treasure-island/article_8f1a21bc-4999-11e9-9cc0-2b8a1c3a9246.html

"Muni Poems - 37 Corbett"
https://www.thebaycitybeacon.com/culture/muni-poems---corbett/article_fa98f746-443b-11e9-9d03-e7ed732b8a57.html

"This is Just to Say (38 Geary)"
https://twitter.com/BayCity_Beacon/status/1105838429739208704

"Muni Poetry - M. Mole"
https://www.thebaycitybeacon.com/culture/muni-poetry---m-mole/article_551e6f18-5a24-11e9-879b-4389bcc5a039.html

"Muni Poetry - Nine Haikus"
https://www.thebaycitybeacon.com/culture/muni-poetry---nine-haikus/article_640f9302-5fa2-11e9-89d6-93e38d0e7659.html

"Muni Poetry - Twenty-Eight Nineteenth Ave"
https://www.thebaycitybeacon.com/culture/muni-poetry---twenty-eight-nineteenth-ave/article_cb5b8ac6-6528-11e9-b0d3-1b208b50119a.html

"Muni Poetry: Rondeau for the 14"
https://www.thebaycitybeacon.com/culture/muni-poetry-rondeau-for-the/article_bfec3260-6b06-11e9-b6cb-3b52d678de26.html

"Muni Poetry - Surf Boarding (23 Monterey)"
https://www.thebaycitybeacon.com/culture/muni-poetry---surf-boarding-monterey/article_f2cfa6e2-706c-11e9-80ea-0ff2b2c8797d.html

"Muni Poetry - New Splice (55 16th)"
https://www.thebaycitybeacon.com/culture/muni-poetry---new-splice-th/article_8c2e334a-7580-11e9-950b-8f1b79bd324e.html ]
muni  36teresita  buses  sanfrancisco  publictransit  2019  poetry  38geary  37corbett  33stanyan  25treasureisland  classideas  poety  poems  mcallen  haiku 
april 2019 by robertogreco
Waiting for Happiness by Nomi Stone - Poems | Academy of American Poets
"Dog knows when friend will come home
because each hour friend’s smell pales,
air paring down the good smell
with its little diamond. It means I miss you
O I miss you, how hard it is to wait
for my happiness, and how good when
it arrives. Here we are in our bodies,
ripe as avocados, softer, brightening
with latencies like a hot, blue core
of electricity: our ankles knotted to our
calves by a thread, womb sparking
with watermelon seeds we swallowed
as children, the heart again badly hurt, trying
and failing. But it is almost five says
the dog. It is almost five."
poems  poetry  morethanhuman  multispecies  human-animalrelations  human-animalrelationships  dogs  pets  nomistone  relationships 
december 2018 by robertogreco
Sean Ziebarth on Twitter: "The effects of outlining on writing. Via “Several short sentences about writing” by Verlyn Klinkenborg #teachwriting #aplangchat #2ndaryela #elachat #engchat… https://t.co/iu9kcxup0F"
"The effects of outlining on writing.
Via “Several short sentences about writing” by Verlyn Klinkenborg
[https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/93789/several-short-sentences-about-writing-by-verlyn-klinkenborg/9780307279415 ]
#teachwriting #aplangchat #2ndaryela #elachat #engchat


[images with: ]

In the outline and draft model of writing, thinking is largely done up front.
Outlining means organizing the sequence of your meanings, not your sentences.
It derogates the making of sentences.
It ignores the suddenness of thought,
The surprises to be found in the making of sentences.
It knows nothing of the thoughtfulness you'll discover as you work.

It prevents discovery within the act of writing.
It says, planning is one thing, writing another,
And discovery has nothing to do with it.
It overemphasizes logic and chronology
Because they offer apparently "natural" structures.
It preserves the cohesiveness of your research
And leaves you with a heap of provisional sentences,
Which are supposed to sketch the thoughts you've already outlined.

It fails to realize that writing comes from writing."

[later: "I can’t believe I’ve survived the past six years without “Several Short Sentences About Writing” by Verlyn Klinkenborg. #zen #wordnerd"
https://twitter.com/MrZiebarth/status/1047722841532071937

[images with]

"There's nothing permanent in the state of being written down.
Your sentences, written down, are in the condition of waiting to be examined.

You commit yourself to each sentence as you make it,
And to each sentence as you fix it,
Retaining the capacity to change everything and
Always remembering to work from the small-scale—The scale of the sentence—upward.

Rejoicing and despair aren't very good tools for revising.
Curiosity, patience, and the ability to improvise are.
So is the ability to remain open to the work and let it remain open to you.

Don't confuse order with linearity.
You'll find more than enough order in the thought, and sentences that interest you.
By order I mean merely connections—
Some close, some oblique, some elliptical—
Order of any kind you choose to create, any way you choose to move."]
seanziebarth  verlynklinkenborg  writing  outlines  howwewrite  unschooling  deschooling  drafts  meaning  thinking  howwethink  sentences  poems  poetry  scale  linearity  order  thought  connections  meaningmaking  2018 
october 2018 by robertogreco
First Day of Class, by Michael Hettich
"First Day of Class

I was thinking of starting a forest, he says,
when I ask what he plans to do with his life
after he graduates. If I did that,
he explains, I would have to learn self-reliance
and I’d understand the animals. I wonder how many
trees I’d have to grow to become
a forest, a real one. The other students listen silently
and some even nod, as if what he said
was something they’d considered too. But they’ve all told me
lawyer or physical therapist, nurse
or businessperson. There have been no dancers
or even English majors. But this young man is serious,
sitting there in tee-shirt and baseball cap, straight-backed
and speaking with a deferential nod, as though
I could help him--as I’ve been explaining I’m here
to do, their professor. We’ll form a small community
I’ve told them, or I hope we will, and we’ll discuss the world.
It seems to be raining this morning, though I’m not sure
since this classroom doesn’t have windows. It was raining
when I drove in at first light, splashing through the streets:
Some of the students wear slickers; others carry
brightly-colored umbrellas. And now another young man
raises his hand and says that, on second thought,
he wants to be a farm, an organic farm with many bees
and maybe even cows and pigs no one will ever eat
that live like pets. I love fresh milk, he says.
Then someone else tells us she’s always secretly
yearned to be a lake somewhere up north in the woods—
let’s say in Maine, since I love seasons
and I wonder how it feels to freeze tight, not move
for months, how it feels to open up again
in the spring; and I’ve always wondered how fish would feel
swimming through my body, how that might make me shiver
like love. And she laughs then. And thus the room grows wild."

[via: https://twitter.com/earnestdrollery/status/1034827420120096769 ]
michaelhettich  unschooling  schooling  deschooling  schools  education  life  living  multispecies  morethanhuman  careers  poems  poetry 
september 2018 by robertogreco
EVERYBODY NEEDS A ROCK - ENGLISH : BYRD BAYLOR : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive
[See also: https://books.google.com/books?id=EWH-IfBQ-B0C ]

"RULE NUMBER 2

When you are looking
at rocks
don’t let

mothers or fathers
or sisters or brothers
or even best friends
talk
to you.

You should choose
a rock

when everything
is quiet.

Don’t let dogs bark
at you

or bees buzz
at you.

But if they do,

DON'T WORRY.

(The worst thing you can do is go
rock hunting when you are worried.)"

[via: https://www.instagram.com/p/BmRN3JFBySIAAG5R52aZZNqwRDHkkCHd_PXdLk0/ ]
morethanhuman  rocks  poems  poetry  objects  multispecies  byrdbaylor 
august 2018 by robertogreco
@cmonstah: EULOGY FOR JONATHAN GOLD  (a cut-up poem taken...
[poem links to the reviews the lines were taken from, so click though for that]

"EULOGY FOR JONATHAN GOLD
(a cut-up poem taken from his restaurant reviews)
(Photo by Javier Cabral @theglutster)

You may belong to L.A.’s great brotherhood of taco eaters
huddled around trucks late at night.
You munch still-muddy radishes to sweeten your breath,
but the stink of onions and garlic and cilantro and pig flesh
haunt you like a friendly ghost for days.
When we’re hungry, everything tastes good
Hunger is the best spice.

Pico was where I learned to eat
I saw my first punk-rock show on Pico
was shot at, fell in love, witnessed a knife fight,
took cello lessons, raised chickens, ate Oki Dogs and heard X, Ice Cube, and Willie Dixon perform
(though not together)
on Pico.

When this dining room was Tiny Naylor’s
my mom used to take us here for patty melts
when she didn’t feel flush enough
to spring for the onion rings across the street.
You could drive by the restaurant 300 times
without ever being tempted to stop.

You dump your Lexus off with the valet,
march down a breezeway.
It looks like the path to Thunder Mountain at Disneyland
You walk past a watery ditch lined with shattered rock whose cracks ooze green light.
You are led to an elevator in the rust-colored steel structure.

If you spend much time watching period Asian movies,
you will remember scenes of dark inns,
a crew of women tending an ancient grill,
prodding battered cookpots licked with yellow flame.
Their interiors resonate with dark wood and leather,
stone and iron, surfaces oozing water and flame.
Like the fifth level of any first-person shooter.
You never know quite whether to order a Dirty Martini
or to search the ground for a pulsing golden key.

It is time to go down into the dining room.
The minimalist soundtrack,
which sounds like the part
where the icebergs float by in a National Geographic film.
If you try to muscle your way toward a seat
that may not officially belong to you,
a stooped Chinese woman will cut you off at the knees.

A waitress will try to sell you a third or fourth martini.
The skull of Simon Le Bon splats on your forehead.
His brains trickle down your cheek like warm yolk.
I wave toward the canapé,
telling him that I had always considered truffle oil
to be the Heinz ketchup of the overbred.
Traditional dishes are more austere
than what used to be served,
possibly because of the seediness
radiating from the adult-video store next door .

Ghost-white Kobe beef grilled to a crisp-edged liquid succulence.
A foil-wrapped construction the size and girth of your forearm
drapes over a paper plate like a giant oozing sea cucumber.
The bare hint of sweaty afternoon sex in the scent of a juicy midsummer melon.
This is the first of many flowers you will see tonight.
You will recognize none of them.

What will happen is
that your date will suck up the last of his or her Jolly Roger Bowl
and carve your initials in the booth.
You hear the occasional lonely moan of a train whistle
from the tracks that run a few blocks south of here.
It seems exactly right.
As if you are eating your lunch
at some railroad-station restaurant
a hundred miles in the countryside.

And it is hard to avoid feeling that everything
is pretty all right in the world."
carolinamiranda  jonathangold  food  eulogies  writing  poems  poetry  2018 
july 2018 by robertogreco
A Color of the Sky by Tony Hoagland | Poetry Foundation
"Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.

I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.

Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.

Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,

which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.

Last night I dreamed of X again.
She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I’m glad.

What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.

Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;

overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,

dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,

so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It’s been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more."
poems  poetry  morethanhuman  multispecies  tonyhoagland  2003  plants  trees  wastefulness  making  spring  everyday  ephemeral 
july 2018 by robertogreco
BBC Radio 4 - Pick a Sky and Name It
"How did Momtaza Mehri go from net savvy 6th former to successful millennial poet?

A house belonging to her grandmother is the closest poet Momtaza Mehri has ever come to having a permanent home. Aside from summer months in London, Momtaza's family picked its way across the Middle East.

"Then I just realise, I'm having this typical Somali experience where we're literally going to the places that would be considered the bad 'hoods."

Across a sea, another gulf, was the country her parents no longer called home.

Talking with her mother, Momtaza revisits the childhood experiences that shaped her outlook and her coming of age as a millennial poet.

Poetry extracts are taken from:
I believe in the transformative power of cocoa butter and breakfast cereal in the afternoon
Manifesto for those carrying dusk under their eyes
The Sag
Shan
Wink Wink
November 1997

"The internet just switched up the entire game," Momtaza says.

Producer: Tamsin Hughes
A Testbed production for BBC Radio 4."
momtazamehri  poets  poetry  poems  howwelearn  online  internet  web  blogging  autodidacts  somalidiaspora  tamsinhughes  2018  interviews  radio  profiles  somalia  middleeast  london  experience  childhood  dubai  mogadishu  civilwar  tumblr  publishing  howwewrite  freedom 
july 2018 by robertogreco
Untitled by Jesús Castillo - Poems | Academy of American Poets
"Dear Empire, I am confused each time I wake inside you.
You invent addictions.
Are you a high-end graveyard or a child?
I see your children dragging their brains along.
Why not a god who loves water and dancing
instead of mirrors that recite your pretty features only?

You wear a different face to each atrocity.
You are un-unified and tangled.
Are you just gluttony?
Are you civilization’s slow grenade?

I am confused each time I’m swallowed by your doors."
poems  poetry  empire  jesúscastillo  addiction  civilization  capitalism  2018 
june 2018 by robertogreco
Poetry Kōan (@poetrykoan) | Twitter
"Poetry prescriptions for cracking open hearts & minds, bodies & souls. Mostly self-prescribed by/for @stevewasserman_. Always paper, ink, human faces."

[See also:
http://poetrykoan.com/
http://poetrykoan.com/wha/
http://poetrykoan.com/my-koans/ ]
poetry  poems  daily  twitter  via:jslr 
june 2018 by robertogreco
David George Haskell on Twitter: "Time is context dependent. For the Rocky Mountain bristlecone pine, a needle is fifteen summers, a sapling a century. For every species, a tempo, a velocity. Wood from over 50 human generations ago, on a Precambrian mount
"Time is context dependent. For the Rocky Mountain bristlecone pine, a needle is fifteen summers, a sapling a century. For every species, a tempo, a velocity.
Wood from over 50 human generations ago, on a Precambrian mountain."

[via: https://twitter.com/timoslimo/status/1007738124053577729

""“time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough”
- e.e. cummings "
time  context  nature  life  velocity  trees  eecummings  poems  poetry  multispecies  morethanhuman 
june 2018 by robertogreco
Webcam Poetry -- Joe McAlister
"Webcam Poetry (2018)
Webcam poetry is a project that uses dense captioning and my own generative poetry engine to create expressive poetry based on live camera streams.

Dense captioning uses machine learning to understand what can be seen within the scene, which I subsequently use to influence my poetry engine, creating expressive poetry related directly to what is happening in the scene (often with a little artistic license).

Because of the ability of the poetry engine to research any topic the combinations seen within the poetry is almost endless. Here are a few of my favourite poems.

View Webcam Poetry live at specified times at http://www.webcampoetry.com/ "
webcams  poetry  jomcalister  2018  art  poems  internet  online  web 
june 2018 by robertogreco
The Guest House: A Poem - Mrs. Mindfulness
"The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

— Jellaludin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks"
poetry  mindfulness  jellaludinrumi  poems  colemanbarks  hospitality  via:lukeneff 
may 2018 by robertogreco
Lunchbox Poems : THE LANGUAGE OF THE BIRDS
"1

A man saw a bird and found him beautiful. The bird had a song inside him, and feathers. Sometimes the man felt like the bird and sometimes the man felt like a stone—solid, inevitable—but mostly he felt like a bird, or that there was a bird inside him, or that something inside him was like a bird fluttering. This went on for a long time.


2

A man saw a bird and wanted to paint it. The problem, if there was one, was simply a problem with the question. Why paint a bird? Why do anything at all? Not how, because hows are easy—series or sequence, one foot after the other—but existentially why bother, what does it solve?

And just because you want to paint a bird, do actually paint a bird, it doesn’t mean you’ve accomplished anything. Who gets to measure the distance between experience and its representation? Who controls the lines of inquiry? We do. Anyone can.

Blackbird, he says. So be it, indexed and normative. But it isn’t a bird, it’s a man in a bird suit, blue shoulders instead of feathers, because he isn’t looking at a bird, real bird, as he paints, he is looking at his heart, which is impossible.

Unless his heart is a metaphor for his heart, as everything is a metaphor for itself, so that looking at the paint is like looking at a bird that isn’t there, with a song in its throat that you don’t want to hear but you paint anyway.

The hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not, and the hand wants to do something useful. Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep, I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart, says the heart.


3

They looked at the animals. They looked at the walls of the cave. This is earlier, these are different men. They painted in torchlight: red mostly, sometimes black—mammoth, lion, horse, bear—things on a wall, in profile or superimposed, dynamic and alert.

They weren’t animals but they looked like animals, enough like animals to make it confusing, meant something but the meaning was slippery: it wasn’t there but it remained, looked like the thing but wasn’t the thing—was a second thing, following a second set of rules—and it was too late: their power over it was no longer absolute.

What is alive and what isn’t and what should we do about it? Theories: about the nature of the thing. And of the soul. Because people die. The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.

The night sky is vast and wide.

They huddled closer, shoulder to shoulder, painted themselves in herds, all together and apart from the rest. They looked at the sky, and at the mud, and at their hands in the mud, and their dead friends in the mud. This went on for a long time.


4

To be a bird, or a flock of birds doing something together, one or many, starling or murmuration. To be a man on a hill, or all the men on all the hills, or half a man shivering in the flock of himself. These are some choices.

The night sky is vast and wide.

A man had two birds in his head—not in his throat, not in his chest—and the birds would sing all day never stopping. The man thought to himself, One of these birds is not my bird. The birds agreed.

RICHARD SIKEN"
poems  poetry  birds  animals  multispecies  morethanhuman  richardsiken 
april 2018 by robertogreco
Atlas by Terisa Siagatonu | Poetry Magazine
"If you open up any atlas
and take a look at a map of the world,
almost every single one of them
slices the Pacific Ocean in half.
To the human eye,
every map centers all the land masses on Earth
creating the illusion
that water can handle the butchering
and be pushed to the edges
of the world.
As if the Pacific Ocean isn’t the largest body
living today, beating the loudest heart,
the reason why land has a pulse in the first place.

The audacity one must have to create a visual so
violent as to assume that no one comes
from water so no one will care
what you do with it
and yet,
people came from land,
are still coming from land,
and look what was done to them.

When people ask me where I’m from,
they don’t believe me when I say water.
So instead, I tell them that home is a machete
and that I belong to places
that don’t belong to themselves anymore,
broken and butchered places that have made me
a hyphen of a woman:
a Samoan-American that carries the weight of both
colonizer and colonized,
both blade and blood.

California stolen.
Samoa sliced in half stolen.
California, nestled on the western coast of the most powerful
country on this planet.
Samoa, an island so microscopic on a map, it’s no wonder
people doubt its existence.
California, a state of emergency away from having the drought
rid it of all its water.
Samoa, a state of emergency away from becoming a saltwater cemetery
if the sea level doesn’t stop rising.
When people ask me where I’m from,
what they want is to hear me speak of land,
what they want is to know where I go once I leave here,
the privilege that comes with assuming that home
is just a destination, and not the panic.
Not the constant migration that the panic gives birth to.
What is it like? To know that home is something
that’s waiting for you to return to it?
What does it mean to belong to something that isn’t sinking?
What does it mean to belong to what is causing the flood?

So many of us come from water
but when you come from water
no one believes you.
Colonization keeps laughing.
Global warming is grinning
at all your grief.
How you mourn the loss of a home
that isn’t even gone yet.
That no one believes you’re from.

How everyone is beginning
to hear more about your island
but only in the context of
vacations and honeymoons,
football and military life,
exotic women exotic fruit exotic beaches
but never asks about the rest of its body.
The water.
The islands breathing in it.
The reason why they’re sinking.
No one visualizes islands in the Pacific
as actually being there.
You explain and explain and clarify
and correct their incorrect pronunciation
and explain

until they remember just how vast your ocean is,
how microscopic your islands look in it,
how easy it is to miss when looking
on a map of the world.

Excuses people make
for why they didn’t see it
before."
poems  poetry  maps  mapping  terisasiagatonu  2018  california  samoa  pacificocean  oceans  colonization  water  globalwarming  islands  migration 
april 2018 by robertogreco
How to Read a Poem by Edward Hirsch | Poetry Foundation
"Curious about poetry, but don't know where or how to begin? We've reprinted the first chapter from the book How to Read a Poem by Edward Hirsch. Its 16 sections provide strategies for reading poems, and each section has plenty of links to examples of poems in our archive to illustrate the points.

Heartland
Poems are like messages in a bottle sent out with little hope of finding a recipient. Those of us who find and read poems become their unknown addresses.

To the Reader Setting Out
The reader of poetry is a kind of pilgrim setting out. To read a poem is to depart from the familiar, to leave all expectations behind.

In the Beginning is the Relation
A lyric poem is a special communiqué between an I and a You. It speaks out of a solitude to a solitude; it begins and ends in silence.

Stored Magic
The lyric poem seeks to mesmerize time. It crosses frontiers and outwits the temporal. It can bridge the gulf between people otherwise unknown to each other.

The Immense Intimacy, the Intimate Immensity
The experience of reading poetry and the kind of knowledge it provides cannot be duplicated elsewhere.

Mere Air, These Words, but Delicious to Hear
From syllable to word to phrase to sentence, the sound of poetry is the source of its primitive pleasures.

In Plain American Which Cats and Dogs Can Read!
A lyric poem walks the line between speaking and singing. Poetry is not speech exactly and yet it is always in relationship to speech, to the spoken word.

Give a Common Word the Spell
The medium of poetry is language, our common property. It belongs to no one and to everyone. The precision of poetry restores language. It also defamiliarizes words by wrenching them from familiar or habitual contexts.

Metaphor: A Poet is a Nightingale
Metaphor drives the engine of poetry. Figurative language—figures of speech and thought—guides the interaction between poet and reader.

Epic, Drama, Lyric: Be Plentiful Like the Universe
Poems may be epic, lyric, dramatic, or a mixture of the three. Most poems find a way to defy these conventional categories.

Harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers
The lyric poem began as a work to be performed, to be sung or read aloud. Over time, the lyric transformed into a work for the page, for the reader to imagine in visual terms.

Winged Type
The poem appeals to the eye. It has a shapely dimension and thus relates to the plastic arts, especially painting. The poem is something to look at as well as to recite.

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking
Rhythm is a form cut into time, as Ezra Pound said in ABC of Reading. It is the combination in English of stressed and unstressed syllables that creates a feeling of fixity and flux, of surprise and inevitability.

The Wave Always Returns
The poem is a muscular and composed thing. It moves like a wave, dissolving the literal. We participate in its flow as it moves from the eye to the ear, to the inner ear, the inner eye.

Help Me, O Heavenly Muse
Where does a poem come from? The sources of inspiration are many, from reason to a touch of madness.

It Is Something of an Accident That You Are the Reader and I the Writer
Reading poetry calls for an active reader. The reader must imaginatively collaborate with a poem to give voice to it."
edwardhirsch  poems  poetry  classideas  tutorials  howto  literature  words  meaning  meaningmaking  language 
april 2018 by robertogreco
What We Can Learn From Neruda's Poetry of Resistance
"Instances of social injustice, war, and the los of liberal democracy call us off the sidelines and into action. Neruda drastically adapted his poetry in response to crisis. At the start of the Spanish Civil War, he abandoned his desolate, introverted experimental poetry in favor of a decisive style, one that would compel others into action.

Whether we’re poets, teachers, readers, activists, or ordinary citizens who care about the world, we, too, can transform the way we express ourselves. In the era of social media, we don’t need to make pulp out of flags to transmit our message to the troops of resistance. We can all speak. We can all be part of the dialogue. And poetry can be part of the collective way we, in Neruda’s words, “explain some things.” From Neruda and others we can see how the act of expressing ourselves, and the act of hearing, are core components of resistance—and of poetry’s unique, enduring power."
pabloneruda  2018  poems  poetry  resistance  writing  chile  spain  españa  arieldorfman  pinochet  cantogeneral  spanishcivilwar  oppression  activism  war  gabrieljackson  franco  kwamealexander  ernesthemingway  langstonhughes  nancycunard  bahiashehab  markeisner  gabrielgonzálezvidela  federicogarcíalorca 
april 2018 by robertogreco
[Persian Letters] by Solmaz Sharif | Poetry Magazine
"Dear Aleph,

Like Ovid: I’ll have no last words.
This is what it means to die among barbarians. Bar bar bar
was how the Greeks heard our speech —
sheep, beasts — and so we became
barbarians. We make them reveal
the brutes they are, Aleph, by the things
we make them name. David,
they tell me, is the one
one should aspire to, but ever since
I first heard them say Philistine
I’ve known I am Goliath
if I am anything."
solmazsharif  poems  poetry  persian  2014 
april 2018 by robertogreco
marwahelal on Twitter: "𝙰𝚗𝚍, 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚎
"𝙰𝚗𝚍, 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕

𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎

𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜." - 𝚆𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚜

Welcome to the VERNACULAR HOME, a @nomadreadings #crafttalk. Before we begin, I ask that if you are following along, that you engage these ideas by sharing them, faving, RTing, and chiming in with your own comments.

This talk is dedicated to all displaced peoples and all people who engage in creating a home of language on the page.

1. We’ve witnessed in recent years how advertisers have co-opted vernacular made popular by Black communities on this very platform and profited from it.

2. What these advertisers know is what any good poet knows: vernacular is the pathway to transformation. It is your first language — that language before you were aware of language. It is “like a howl, or a shout or a machine-gun or the wind or a wave,” K. Braithwaite writes.

3. Sidenote: Transformation has a cost but cannot be bought.

4. And as this scene from Spike Lee’s Malcolm X reminds https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfRDUsvu5fE , English is an inherently oppressive and racist language. As Malcolm X feels through this new insight into our language — a “con” as we’re told — he transforms and viewers are transformed with him.

5. Perfect segue to the next point…

6. If the poem does not transform (itself or the reader) it is not a poem. I repeat: If the work does not transform, what you have are words on a page — not a poem.

7. Let's now establish what vernacular [poetry] is.

8. Vernacular is a term used to express the idea that all languages are equal. It eliminates hierarchies of dialects vs. language.

As Baldwin writes in an essay I will share more of later, “...language functions as ‘a political instrument, means, and proof of power,’ and only politics separates a language from dialect.” (from the introduction by ed. Dohra Ahmed, Rotten English) https://bit.ly/2pXfk3h

9. Now that we’ve established what vernacular is, please don’t tell me you speak only one language...

10. Your dreams are a vernacular. Nature is a vernacular. Your sneaker collection is a vernacular! Signage: a vernacular. Your unique way of looking at the world: a vernacular. Your heartbeat: a vernacular. Breath: same, a vernacular.

Whenever I teach this material, I end up yelling “EVERYTHING IS VERNACULAR” by the end of every class. So get ready.

11. Building on that (pun intended), vernacular is also the synthesis between the language (words and symbols in any language) we choose, and how we construct it with grammar, punctuation, syntax and form.

12. It is inaccurate to say we are "decolonizing" a language. What we are doing is reclaiming it by colonizing it with our own vernaculars and inventing what it has failed to imagine. It is a language that has failed to imagine 𝘜𝘚. And so this craft talk is also a call

A call to pay attention to where this language has become dull, stale, and boring. A call to pay attention to intentional and unintentional connotations. And to undo those connotations. In undoing them, I ask that we create radical solutions for this language that troubles us.

13. “It was during the anti colonial struggles of the twentieth century that the latent political potential of vernacular literature fully emerged.

14. Our resistance is in the refusal to assimilate, the preservation of our native vernaculars, the creativity in that preservation.

It is in understanding that there is a particular language [they] want [us] to know -- that particular language that is taught in schools, and the rules or codes implied in that agreed upon language and resisting those implications or overturning those agreements.

15. June Jordan said, “Good poetry & successful revolution change our lives, & you cannot compose a good poem or wage a revolution without changing consciousness—unless you attack the language that you share with your enemies & invent a language that you share with your allies.”

Now, with these ideas in mind, let’s go into the texts…

Harryette Mullen, "We Are Not Responsible," "Elliptical" and "Denigration" from Sleeping with the Dictionary [3 images of text]

Note the attention to language, the transformation or awareness brought to the everyday humdrum of signage and those aforementioned 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼.

Note the attention to punctuation. Each poem uses exactly one form of punctuation in a very distinct way.

I will leave the joy of those discoveries to you! We have more to read...

Here, this breathtaking excerpt by @yosuheirhammad from “break (clear)”, breaking poems [image of text]

The Arabic words "ana" and "khalas" are doing overtime.

"ana" = I am and becomes "I am my" in the last two instances. "Khalas" stands on its own line in the first instance -- open to many translations: "enough," "stop," or "no more" and establishes its commitment to finality in that last line, "khalas all this breaking."

MORE! Solmaz Sharif’s “Persian Letters” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/57580/persian-letters

Here the vernacular “bar bar bar” not only shows us the creation of a word: “barbarians” -- it holds a mirror up to the ones who made it.

“We make them reveal
the brutes they are, Aleph, by the things
we make them name.” - @nsabugsme

NOW Baldwin: “People evolve a language in order to describe and thus control their circumstances, or in order not to be submerged by a reality that they cannot articulate. (And, if they cannot articulate it, they are submerged.)”

"Black English is the creation of the black diaspora. Blacks came to the United States chained to each other, but from different tribes: Neither could speak the other's language. If two black people, at that bitter hour of the world's history, had been able to speak to each...

other, the institution of chattel slavery could never have lasted as long as it did. Subsequently, the slave was given, under the eye, and the gun, of his master, Congo Square, and the Bible--or in other words, and under these conditions, the slave began the formation of the

black church, and it is within this unprecedented tabernacle that black English began to be formed. This was not, merely, as in the European example, the adoption of a foreign tongue, but an alchemy that transformed ancient elements into a new language:

A language comes into existence by means of brutal necessity, and the rules of the language are dictated by what the language must convey.

Link to the full essay: “If Black English Isn’t a Language, Then Tell Me, What Is?” James Baldwin https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/98/03/29/specials/baldwin-english.html

Further reading: “Mother Tongue” by Amy Tan
Link: http://theessayexperiencefall2013.qwriting.qc.cuny.edu/files/2013/09/Mother-Tongue-by-Amy-Tan.pdf

I leave you with this poem by @kyle_decoy “American Vernacular” via @LambdaLiterary
https://www.lambdaliterary.org/features/poetry-spotlight/09/19/a-poem-by-kyle-dacuyan/ ]
marwahelal  language  poetry  writing  words  vernacular  culture  resistance  2018  jamesbaldwin  displacement  transformation  appropriation  malcolmx  english  poems  dohraahmed  grammar  punctuation  syntax  decolonization  colonization  assimilation  creativity  preservation  junejordan  harryettemullen  connotation  suheirhammad  solmazsharif  arabic  amytan  kyledacuyan 
april 2018 by robertogreco
What You Missed That Day You Were Absent From Fourth Grade, by Brad Aaron Modlin
"Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen
to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas,

how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer. She took
questions on how not to feel lost in the dark.

After lunch she distributed worksheets
that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s

voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep
without feeling you had forgotten to do something else—

something important—and how to believe
the house you wake in is your home. This prompted

Mrs. Nelson to draw a chalkboard diagram detailing
how to chant the Psalms during cigarette breaks,

and how not to squirm for sound when your own thoughts
are all you hear; also, that you have enough.

The English lesson was that I am
is a complete sentence.

And just before the afternoon bell, she made the math equation
look easy. The one that proves that hundreds of questions,

and feeling cold, and all those nights spent looking
for whatever it was you lost, and one person

add up to something."
poems  poetry  schools  schooling  unschooling  education  learning  teaching  howweteach  howwelearn  bradmodlin  via:agentdana 
april 2018 by robertogreco
Hotel Berlin by Cynthia Cruz - Poems | Academy of American Poets
"In the rooms of a rundown palace
You said, Ruined. You said, Princess.

You said nothing to me
For three long weeks.

The color of that room
Is eel-black.

When I was a girl and still
German, I stood alone

At the end of the sea.
You may have loved me then

I sent a message through the cages
Of a great whale’s teeth.

For three weeks, I did not sleep.
I set jars of sweet milk and baskets

Of bright berries and red
Marmalade outside your door

In the dream
Where you come to me

I kiss your mouth
Tasting the secret

Letters of your history.
I swear

Somewhere in Siberia
A godly ocean of bison

Still roam free.
You, kneeling before me,

In this,
The last and final room."
poems  poetry  cynthiacruz 
march 2018 by robertogreco
Book Review: Love And Other Words I Mispronounced — ONI MAGAZINE
"Instead of layers of irony and distance that, like with the poets referenced above, add up to a superficial, sarcastic, hipster-ish voice what this book offers is a sincere expression, beauty in vulnerability, and self-reflection and a search for truth in the aftermath of an abusive relationship."
jamieberrout  poetry  instagtam  blogs  blogging  socialmedia  multimedia  gumroad  transgender  dictionaryofobscuresorrows  johnkoenig  kierra  loveandotherwords  words  poems  writing  books  vulnerability 
february 2018 by robertogreco
Shira Erlichman on Twitter: "I teach writing. A lot. & If I had to distill the lesson that comes up the most it would be: Sensuality > Concepts Sensuality > Concepts Sensuality > Concepts Sensuality > Concepts Sensuality > Concepts Sensuality > Concepts"
[via:
"Dear poets-I-chaperone-through-the-process-of-exploring-creative-writing: this thread is to be considered #requiredreading. And then some."
https://twitter.com/jsamlarose/status/960434099524644864 ]

"I teach writing. A lot. & If I had to distill the lesson that comes up the most it would be:

Sensuality > Concepts
Sensuality > Concepts
Sensuality > Concepts
Sensuality > Concepts
Sensuality > Concepts
Sensuality > Concepts

Sure, I'd like to know what you think about the world. But only if I can trust that you can invite me into the world: sense by sense. If you write "That year was really hard for me" I don't know what year it is, I don't know what "hard" means for you. Give me bone, give me break.

If I wrote, "When we moved to the US my dad protected us" like, okay? What is protected? What do I mean? The same thing you mean? What if I said "We lived in a basement apartment. The first time I saw snow it blocked our whole front door. My dad dug us out."

& Then, there's so much room for specificity. "Aba" instead of "my dad." My language is not conceptual; it's based in migration, country, movement, slang, whozeewhats, whatevertheFiwant.

You are the only you, you-ing right now.

Be specific.

Be sensual.

Give us the gift of your aliveness.

The second thing that comes up the most when teaching is a total misunderstanding of editing. I get that. Because about 7 years ago I was really skeptical of a 2nd, let alone 19th draft. However, the palace I live in now is the Utter Joy of the (Literally) 21st Draft Palace.

What changed?

For one, I was writing so much that sometimes I'd go back (years later!) to an old 1st draft & see the second Russian Doll hiding inside it. "Whoa, that's weird," I thought & I'd open up that second Russian Doll. Behold, a third Russian Doll (draft) inside it. [image of Russian dolls]

I banished the idea of editing as boring, reductive. Poems were suddenly turned inside out, upside down. I'd find a hidden gem (an image, let's say) & like Sardines, there'd be all these possibilities tucked up beside it. Editing. Became. More. Creative. Than. Writing.

The proof was in the pudding. I'd write a poem, work on it with my little chisel for years & then BAE WOULD ARRIVE! This poem would suddenly strut, sing, thank ME! As if I hadn't been chasing her for her number all these years!

This poem, "Barometer," 2 years before publication basically read like a Dream Journal LOL. Not great. But necessary! Maybe if I get brave I'll post that first draft here. I send it to students to show them the journey!

https://preludemag.com/posts/ode-to-lithium-6-barometer/

Think about going 2 the doctor. When you go, you want a listener. Tenderness. Empathy. Thats how I approach a draft: How can I best listen to u? To whats hiding here? Can I have patience for ur glitches & starts? What might u already know––& if I ask the right questions––show me?

& Always remember baby!

There's nothing wasted!

Even if you get to draft 22 & throw that lil beast out. So what? So you sat there, refining & chiseling & flipping language & seeking secret caves & spelunking?

You're muscular as fuck for it. I promise. You'll glow for it."
shiraerlichman  writing  advice  howwerite  classideas  editing  poems  poetry  via:jslr  sensuality  aliveness  individuality  tenderness  empathy 
february 2018 by robertogreco
Michael Rosen: Recent squibs on education
"The thing is people didn’t know how to use emojis until the govt produced the Emoji Curriculum.

In the name of ‘raising standards’ but in reality bullying education into being a weapon in international competitiveness wars, the govt has unitised and monetised education. We shld reply with humanistic values to this onslaught.

Hey 4 year old, you are not a ‘4 year old’, you are a ‘stage’ , a developmental unit, a score on the way to being another score, a place on a graph, a monitored level, a number less than or more than another number...

“With his dark blue furry just-fitting, interesting hat on, which he had bought, he walked in.” = Good writing according to ‘Expected level’ National Curriculum.

embeddedrelativeclause
frontedAdverbial
expandednounphrase

Children whose names are not phonically regular must not try to read or write their names in Nursery, Reception or Year 1 in case it hinders their learning of how the alphabetic code works. [irony alert]

If Nursery, Reception or Yr1 children ask to see the writing in a non-phonically regular book, or try to read a cereal packet or a road sign, firmly grip the top of their head and turn it away from the words in question. See Bold Beginnings for more advice on this.

Why do you write poems, Michael?
So that children can be graded according to how well they ‘retrieve ‘ and ‘infer’ on a right/wrong grid devised by people who don’t like poetry."
michaelrosen  education  children  school  unschooling  deschooling  schooling  learning  poems  poetry  2018  inference  literature  emoji  standards  standardization  satire 
february 2018 by robertogreco
Ursula K. Le Guin: New poetry, November 2006
"Crows

Crows are the color of anarchy
and close up they’re a little scary.
An eye as bright as anything.
Having a pet crow would be
like having Voltaire on a string."

[more poems follow]
ursulaleguin  crows  2006  poems  poetry  corvids  via:tealtan 
january 2018 by robertogreco
Olio by Tyehimba Jess | Wave Books
"With ambitious manipulations of poetic forms, Tyehimba Jess presents the sweat and story behind America’s blues, worksongs and church hymns. Part fact, part fiction, Jess's much anticipated second book weaves sonnet, song, and narrative to examine the lives of mostly unrecorded African American performers directly before and after the Civil War up to World War I. Olio is an effort to understand how they met, resisted, complicated, co-opted, and sometimes defeated attempts to minstrelize them."
poetry  books  2017  poems  toread  tyehimbajess 
january 2018 by robertogreco
The Sun and Her Flowers | CBC Books
"this is the recipe of life
said my mother
as she held me in her arms as i wept
think of those flowers you plant
in the garden each year 
they will teach you
that people too
must wilt
fall
root
rise
in order to bloom"
poems  poetry  life  teaching  sfsh  rupikaur  growth  plants  humans  human 
november 2017 by robertogreco
The Rider by Naomi Shihab Nye - Poems | Academy of American Poets
"A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,
the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.
What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.
A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell."
naomishihabnye  loneliness  poems  poetry  1952 
november 2017 by robertogreco
RITES OF PASSAGE (To MLK jr.) by Audre Lorde. | African American Registry
"Now rock the boat to a fare-thee-well.
Once we suffered dreaming
into a place where the children are playing
their child’s games
where children are hoping
knowledge survives
if unknowing they follow the game
without winning.

Their fathers are dying
back to the freedom of wise children playing
at knowing
their fathers are dying
whose deaths will not free them
of growing from knowledge
of knowing
when the game becomes foolish
a dangerous pleading
for time out of power.
Quick
children kiss us
we are growing through dream..."
audrelorde  ritesofpassage  poems  poetry  children  games  play  power 
october 2017 by robertogreco
Power by Audre Lorde | Poetry Foundation
"The difference between poetry and rhetoric
is being ready to kill
yourself
instead of your children.

I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds
and a dead child dragging his shattered black
face off the edge of my sleep
blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders
is the only liquid for miles
and my stomach
churns at the imagined taste while
my mouth splits into dry lips
without loyalty or reason
thirsting for the wetness of his blood
as it sinks into the whiteness
of the desert where I am lost
without imagery or magic
trying to make power out of hatred and destruction
trying to heal my dying son with kisses
only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.

A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens
stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood
and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and
there are tapes to prove it. At his trial
this policeman said in his own defense
“I didn't notice the size nor nothing else
only the color”. And
there are tapes to prove that, too.

Today that 37 year old white man
with 13 years of police forcing
was set free
by eleven white men who said they were satisfied
justice had been done
and one Black Woman who said
“They convinced me” meaning
they had dragged her 4'10'' black Woman's frame
over the hot coals
of four centuries of white male approval
until she let go
the first real power she ever had
and lined her own womb with cement
to make a graveyard for our children.

I have not been able to touch the destruction
within me.
But unless I learn to use
the difference between poetry and rhetoric
my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold
or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire
and one day I will take my teenaged plug
and connect it to the nearest socket
raping an 85 year old white woman
who is somebody's mother
and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed
a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time
“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”"
audrelorde  poems  poetry  power  1978 
october 2017 by robertogreco
Teju Cole (@_tejucole) • Fotos y vídeos de Instagram
"Is it he or is it I that experience this?
Is it I then that keep saying there is an hour
Filled with expressible bliss, in which I have
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
No need, am happy, forget need's golden hand,
Am satisfied without solacing majesty,
And if there is an hour there is a day,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
There is a month, a year, there is a time
In which majesty is a mirror of the self:
I have not but I am and as I am, I am.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
—Wallace Stevens
from "Notes Toward A Supreme Fiction""
wallacestevens  poetry  poems  fiction  tejucole  photography  experience  being  existence  self 
august 2017 by robertogreco
On Sound and Rhythm by Jack Collom | Poetry Foundation
"A way to start teaching poetry to children and young adults."



"The speech of children is songs of innocence and experience. Seven- through eleven-year-old kids (apprentice writers) have already had thousands upon thousands of hours of practice talking (and listening) that would constitute—in terms of pole-vaulting or violin-playing—world-class experience. They are fluent within their own vocabularies. Already, the rhythms of their speech resemble those of rather interesting jazz.

Children’s language seems to have a built-in musicality: listen to their talk; it’s frequently like a mountain freshet bubbling along over rocks, full of silvery arcs. This is the raw material of poetry. By contrast, we adults, though much larger in our references and vocabulary, tend to fall into verbal ruts and toneless abstractions.

And children take a special delight in odd or pretty sounds. Given the chance to write, they are very playful with the sonic side of language. Experts say their learning of new words is a process of wonder, laughter, and punning. What children may lack is a developed sense of artistic judgment, so that their poems often include startling successes in sound right next to bland or awkward passages. They tend to accept whatever comes into their heads.

So they have the potential for art right on the tips of their tongues. It is important that we recognize this “little genius” for poetry that children have—and not try to “muscle” them into adult standards of poetic discourse. Yes, they should develop mature language skills—but gradually, organically, while as much as possible maintaining (and developing and transforming) their own fresh poetic talents."

[See also:
"Jack Collom, Boulder poet and educator, remembered for 'a great run of a life'"
http://www.dailycamera.com/top-stories/ci_31113500/jack-collom-boulder-poet-and-educator-remembered-great ]
poetry  classideas  teaching  jackcollom  via:austinkleon  sound  language  writing  teachingwriting  poems  tone  imitation 
july 2017 by robertogreco
Alec Soth en Instagram: “Don't tell me property is sacred! Things that move, yes! – cars out rolling thru the country how they like to rest ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ on…”
"Don't tell me property is sacred!
Things that move, yes! –
cars out rolling thru the country
how they like to rest

on me – beer cans and cellophane
on my clean-mowed grounds.
Whereas I'm quiet...I was born
with eyes and a house
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
– untitled poem by Lorine Niedecker
poems  poetry  lorinniedecker  property 
june 2017 by robertogreco
Poemage: A Visualization Tool in Support of Close Reading
Poemage is a visualization system for exploring the sonic topology of a poem. We define sonic topology as the complex structures formed via the interaction of sonic patterns — words connected through some sonic or linguistic resemblance — across the space of the poem. Poemage was developed at the University of Utah as part of an ongoing, highly exploratory collaboration between data visualization experts and poets/poetry scholars. Additional details are provided in the companion paper [http://www.sci.utah.edu/~nmccurdy/Poemage/images/Poemage.pdf ].
poetry  visualization  poems  via:lukeneff 
may 2017 by robertogreco
Pookleblinky on Twitter: "Here's a cool thing: most poetic devices in human culture are error-detecting codes."
"Here's a cool thing: most poetic devices in human culture are error-detecting codes.

Poetic meter, rhymes, alliteration, inflection in languages such as Latin, etc. All aided transmission as oral tradition.

From the Iliad to the Mahabharata, poetic devices and organization served to increase the fidelity over an awfully noisy channel

This structure works so well that it is possible to recreate how ancient Greek and Latin sounded, by examining their poetry.

It works so well that it's possible to recreate Shakespeare's accent, by examining his rhymes.

Most of these poetic devices, served to identify errors. You could easily tell if someone fudged a word, snuck in new lines.

Some served to correct errors. The poet has a brainfart, forgets which word is next, realizes only one synonym would fit there.

Redundancy is also a time-honored means of transmitting information through a noisy channel.

"40 days and 40 nights," multiple lazaruses, all the things that confuse and amuse modern people: they served a purpose.

Oral traditions offer a window into both information theory and human communication.

Each one reflects countless generations of trial-and-error honing of information theoretic techniques to maximize channel capacity.

People who had no clue what calculus was, who couldn't even read, figured out the hard way how to encode a message for minimal error.

People encoded their signals so robustly that they survived wars, famines, near exterminations

Some signals were encoded so well that only a handful of people were necessary for their transmission.

Oral traditions survived countless local apocalypses, due to robust encoding schemes evolved organically.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vedic_chant

Look at how many levels of encoding went into the vedic oral tradition

Each syllable was robustly encoded multiple ways. https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C5Baq_SXUAEPm9D.jpg [https://twitter.com/pookleblinky/status/833265650940395520 ]

Each syllable was subject to both error detecting and error correcting codes, optimized for how humans process language.

Each syllable's transmission exploited multiple methods by which humans process language.

The result is an oral tradition that could transmit, virtually error-free, for longer than agriculture has existed."
language  culture  oraltradition  orality  poetry  meter  rhyme  rhyming  allitertion  transmission  poems  vedicchants  errordetection 
february 2017 by robertogreco
Planetarium by Adrienne Rich | Poetry Foundation
"Thinking of Caroline Herschel (1750—1848)
astronomer, sister of William; and others.

A woman in the shape of a monster   
a monster in the shape of a woman   
the skies are full of them

a woman      ‘in the snow
among the Clocks and instruments   
or measuring the ground with poles’

in her 98 years to discover   
8 comets

she whom the moon ruled   
like us
levitating into the night sky   
riding the polished lenses

Galaxies of women, there
doing penance for impetuousness   
ribs chilled   
in those spaces    of the mind

An eye,

          ‘virile, precise and absolutely certain’
          from the mad webs of Uranusborg

                                                            encountering the NOVA   

every impulse of light exploding

from the core
as life flies out of us

             Tycho whispering at last
             ‘Let me not seem to have lived in vain’

What we see, we see   
and seeing is changing

the light that shrivels a mountain   
and leaves a man alive

Heartbeat of the pulsar
heart sweating through my body

The radio impulse   
pouring in from Taurus

         I am bombarded yet         I stand

I have been standing all my life in the   
direct path of a battery of signals
the most accurately transmitted most   
untranslatable language in the universe
I am a galactic cloud so deep      so invo-
luted that a light wave could take 15   
years to travel through me       And has   
taken      I am an instrument in the shape   
of a woman trying to translate pulsations   
into images    for the relief of the body   
and the reconstruction of the mind."
poems  poetry  adriennerich  nature  stars  heavens  sexuality  gender  science  planets  starts 
january 2017 by robertogreco
A 90-Year-Old John Berger is Not Surprised By President Trump | Literary Hub
[audio: https://soundcloud.com/lithub/apcfp-e27-john-berger ]

"John Berger talks with Paul Holdengraber about President Donald Trump, the emptiness of American political commentary, desire, place, and how the hell to keep going.

John Berger on Trump’s win…
In such a climate, somebody who is actually saying something, who seems to suggest that there may be a connection between what he said and what he will do, such a person is a way out of a vacuous nightmare—even if the way out is dangerous or vicious… The less hot air you make and the more tangible you are the better chance you have at this moment.

John Berger on the American electorate’s anger towards the elite…
They are angry at the elite not because it’s the elite in the old fashion way—the elites have always been criticizable or suspected—but because it’s the elite that talks and talks and talks and there is no connection between his talk and his actions and what is really happening in the world. So it’s a kind of elitism which is an abstraction.

John Berger on what keeps him going…
The next job, the next task. Because I’m always so involved and also collaborating in many, many ways with many different people on many different levels. So what keeps me going is the next page.

John Berger on desire…
I think that all desire, including sexual, is the desire to be in a certain place, if only a place consumes us and gives us energy. But when I say place I don’t mean a geographical place… It’s where your finger fits or where your foot rests."



[Paul Holdengraber reads Berger this poem.]

"The Uses of Sorrow by Mary Oliver

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.?"
johnberger  paulholdengraber  2016  donaldtrump  elections  desire  place  elitism  emptiness  politics  pabloneruda  maryoliver  poems  poetry  poets  sorrow 
january 2017 by robertogreco
A Small Needful Fact | Academy of American Poets
"A Small Needful Fact
by Ross Gay

Is that Eric Garner worked
for some time for the Parks and Rec.
Horticultural Department, which means,
perhaps, that with his very large hands,
perhaps, in all likelihood,
he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow, continue
to do what such plants do, like house
and feed small and necessary creatures,
like being pleasant to touch and smell,
like converting sunlight
into food, like making it easier
for us to breathe."
ericgarner  altonsterling  blacklivesmatter  poems  poetry  rossgay  breathing  gardening 
july 2016 by robertogreco
Emmett Williams (ed.): An Anthology of Concrete Poetry (1967/2013) — Monoskop Log
"“Concrete Poetry is not one style but a cluster of possibilities, all falling in the Intermedium between semantic poetry, calligraphic and typographic poetry, and sound poetry.

It first crystalized out of these earlier modes in the early 1950s in the works of such people as Eugen Gomringer (CH), Carlo Belloli (IT), Dieter Rot (IS), Öyvind Fahlström (SW), the Noigandres Group (Haroldo and Augusto de Campos, Décio Pignatari and others, BR), Carlfriedrich Claus (GDR), Gerhard Rühm, Friedrich Achleitner and H.C. Artmann (AT), Daniel Spoerri and Claus Bremer (DE), and Emmett Williams (US, then living in DE). In recent years a second generation of major figures have added to the movement, including such people as Hansjörg Mayer (DE), Ladislav Novák and Jiří Kolář (CZ), Edwin Morgan and Ian Hamilton Finlay (SC), Bob Cobbing (EN), bp Nichol (CA), Mary Ellen Solt and Jonathan Williams (US), Pierre and Ilse Garnier (FR), Seiichi Niikuni and Kitasono Katue (JP) and many others.

The very fact of the appearance of parallel work more or less independently in so many countries and languages indicates one of the unique aspects of the movement, namely its source being in the development of a new mentality in which values become fused and inter-relationships established on a more complex plain than was the case in the purer, earlier modes of poetry.” (Something Else Press, 1967)

Publisher Something Else Press, New York, 1967
New edition Primary Information, New York, 2013
ISBN 9780985136437
x+342 pages
via Silvio Lorusso"
poetry  concretepoetry  haroldodecampos  augustodecampos  déciopignatri  eugengomringer  poems  carlobelloli  dieterrot  öyvindfahlström  noigandresgroup  carlfriedrichclaus  gerhardrühm  friedrichachleitner  hcartmann  danielspoerri  clausbremer  emmettwilliams  hansjörgmayer  ladislavnovák  jiříkolář  edwinmorgan  ianhamiltonfinlay  bobcobbing  bpnichol  maryellensolt  jonathanwilliams  pierregarnier  ilsegarnier  seiichiniikuni  kitasonokatue  books 
july 2016 by robertogreco
Time | The Jeli
"Time, by Michael Onsando

Time is a work of poetry reflecting on the nature of time and how it affects human experience, particularly relationships."
poetry  time  books  michaelonsando  relationships  poems 
march 2016 by robertogreco
Kindness | Academy of American Poets
"Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive."

[via: ““This was a poem that was given to me. I was simple the secretary for the poem. I wrote it down.” —#NaomiShihabNye”
https://twitter.com/onbeing/status/707290833469333504 ]
kindness  poems  naomishihabnye  1995  poetry  onbeing 
march 2016 by robertogreco
A Primer - The New Yorker
"I remember Michigan fondly as the place I go
to be in Michigan. The right hand of America
waving from maps or the left
pressing into clay a mold to take home
from kindergarten to Mother. I lived in Michigan
forty-three years. The state bird
is a chained factory gate. The state flower
is Lake Superior, which sounds egotistical
though it is merely cold and deep as truth.
A Midwesterner can use the word “truth,”
can sincerely use the word “sincere.”
In truth the Midwest is not mid or west.
When I go back to Michigan I drive through Ohio.
There is off I-75 in Ohio a mosque, so life
goes corn corn corn mosque, I wave at Islam,
which we’re not getting along with
on account of the Towers as I pass.
Then Ohio goes corn corn corn
billboard, goodbye, Islam. You never forget
how to be from Michigan when you’re from Michigan.
It’s like riding a bike of ice and fly fishing.
The Upper Peninsula is a spare state
in case Michigan goes flat. I live now
in Virginia, which has no backup plan
but is named the same as my mother,
I live in my mother again, which is creepy
but so is what the skin under my chin is doing,
suddenly there’s a pouch like marsupials
are needed. The state joy is spring.
“Osiris, we beseech thee, rise and give us baseball”
is how we might sound were we Egyptian in April,
when February hasn’t ended. February
is thirteen months long in Michigan.
We are a people who by February
want to kill the sky for being so gray
and angry at us. “What did we do?”
is the state motto. There’s a day in May
when we’re all tumblers, gymnastics
is everywhere, and daffodils are asked
by young men to be their wives. When a man elopes
with a daffodil, you know where he’s from.
In this way I have given you a primer.
Let us all be from somewhere.
Let us tell each other everything we can."
poems  poetry  place  identity  bobhicok  2008  michigan 
march 2016 by robertogreco
Of Being Numerous: Sections 1-22 by George Oppen : The Poetry Foundation
[via: http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/hejinian/reason.html ]

"1

There are things
We live among ‘and to see them
Is to know ourselves’.

Occurrence, a part
Of an infinite series,

The sad marvels;

Of this was told
A tale of our wickedness.
It is not our wickedness.

‘You remember that old town we went to, and we sat in the ruined window, and we tried to imagine that we belonged to those times—It is dead and it is not dead, and you cannot imagine either its life or its death; the earth speaks and the salamander speaks, the Spring comes and only obscures it—’

2

So spoke of the existence of things,
An unmanageable pantheon

Absolute, but they say
Arid.

A city of the corporations

Glassed
In dreams

And images—

And the pure joy
Of the mineral fact

Tho it is impenetrable

As the world, if it is matter,
Is impenetrable.

3

The emotions are engaged
Entering the city
As entering any city.

We are not coeval
With a locality
But we imagine others are,

We encounter them. Actually
A populace flows
Thru the city.

This is a language, therefore, of New York"

poems  poetry  georgeoppen 
march 2016 by robertogreco
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I... | OLIVIA C.
"After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost."

—Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. "
community  humanity  poetry  poems  naomishihabnye  sacraments  food  cookies  plants  communing  traditions  travel  language  communication  alburquerque 
february 2016 by robertogreco
The Untapped Creativity of the Chinese Internet | VICE | United States
"[image]

Somewhere in mainland China, a kid in the grips of puppy love posts one of those raw, unmediated posts so saccharine it's both unbearably endearing and ridiculously funny. It's so completely melodramatic that other users stumble across the post and begin adding their own feelings and thoughts, remixing it to be even funnier. The words are skewed, images and music added, and finally uploaded to Bilibili.com, where users overlay their own comments onto the video in real-time.

The resulting GIFs, poems, videos, and comments spread through the Chinese internet on Sina Weibo and WeChat in a flurry of color and flashing animations. This is So in love, w​ill never feel tired again, an online exhibition of work by Chinese new media and net artist Yin​​g Miao, and it serves as a counterpoint to the West's view of the Chinese internet as bland and heavily censored. Despite all that I've been told in the West, the internet here looks incredibly fun and vibrant to me.

[image]

"The Chinese internet is really raw," Miao tells me. "It's so unlimited but also limited. It's really rich material." We are sitting in a café with our laptops open in downtown Beijing, a brief bike ride from Tiananmen Square. Miao is walking me through her artwork in preparation for the launch of the online exhibition series Ne​tizenet. Miao impresses upon me the depth of creativity on the Chinese internet, showing how memes emerge and morph across platforms and ideologies and around censorship.

While I'm becoming accustomed to relying on my VPN or Tor to use boringly functional sites like Gmail, Miao is taking me on an unblocked tour of her inspirations, the wildest and weirdest of the Chinese internet from behind the so-called Great Firewall. Here, everything can be remixed and .GIFs are always welcomed. Conversations on WeChat (the most popular messaging platform here) are an endless stream of reaction .GIFs that put Tumblr to shame.

[image]

In the series, LAN Love Poem, Miao explores her complicated feelings around the Chinese web. LAN stands for local area network and is suggestive of the localized nature of the internet, in both law and culture, that we in the West are rarely confronted with. Miao uses type inspired by Taobao.com (a site akin to eBay) and intentionally poor English translations of odes to her censored net.

The extreme creativity and vibrancy on the Chinese internet is hard to grasp as a Westerner who is a devout defender of free speech. My ignorance of Miao's raw material, and the many other aspects of Chinese net culture that are difficult to grasp is what Netizienet (or 网友网 in Mandarin and Wǎngyǒuwǎng in Pinyin) is all about.

[image]

Using NewHive, a multimedia publishing platform, Netizenet will examine the internet as a medium from within China, an internet very different from what I grew up with in the States. Through an ongoing series of online exhibitions by Chinese and international artists--of which Miao is the first--Netizenet asks important questions about creativity, differing online aesthetics, and location-based web access. Is the Chinese internet uniquely different from the rest of the world's, or does every country's web have its own unique aesthetics and traits?

The curator behind Netizenet is Michelle Proksell, an independent curator, researcher, and artist currently based in Beijing. Proksell was born in Saudi Arabia to expatriate American parents, and moved to the United States when the Gulf War was starting. Proksell loved traveling through Asia as a kid and this is why she eventually returned and has lived in China for over two years.

Proksell sees a ton of potential in Beijing and Shanghai for the arts, especially net art, and wants to help cultivate the scene. She was fascinated by how the Chinese internet influenced Miao's "artistic aesthetic, process and production," writing that Miao "has a bit of a love affair with the kitschy, low-tech aesthetic, and unreliable nature of this part of the [world wide web.]" ​

[image]

Miao is one of the few net artists in mainland China. She and Proksell have adopted the monumental task of helping to encourage a net art discourse in a country of over 620 million internet users as well as introducing that culture to the West. Proksell tells me, "I really wanted to set a tone for the project by working with an artist who had been intimate with this side of the web early in her art practice."

Miao has certainly been exploring the aesthetics and issues of access in the internet in her work for some time. In 2007, for her undergrad thesis exhibition at the China Academy of Fine Arts near Shanghai, Miao made The Blind Spot, which meticulously documented every word blocked from Google.cn. The piece took Miao three months to make and is a brilliant DIY version of Jason Q. Ng's work documenting blocked words on the popular Chinese social network Sina Weibo. But Miao has no interest in only focusing on the limitations of the Chinese internet, believing there are much more fascinating things underway.

For instance, iPhone Garbage is an incredible convergence of Chinese manufacturing, social media, and ​Shanzhai (slang for pirated and fake goods) culture. A heavily remixed video shows a young entrepreneur aggressively promoting his custom smartphone while continually calling the iPhone "garbage." In Miao's work we see a pushback on Western aesthetics and corporations in favor of a more local flavor.

[image]

Miao suggests that the emerging narrative of Shanzhai might be replicated in net art in China. At first Shanzhai referred only to cheap knockoffs that rarely worked and were an annoying thorn in "legitimate" companies' sides. Now, as Joi Ito has found, Shanzhai merchants are beginning to build entirely unique hardware, offering entirely different capabilities than their Western smartphone counterparts. Miao believes too that Chinese net culture should embrace their differences and push them as far as possible.

In an int​erv​iew between Miao and Proksell, Miao said, "I think there is a bright future for Chinese internet art." Proksell and Miao have an uphill battle proving that to the West, but just as I had never seen many of Miao's influences, this culture is emerging with or without the West's acknowledgement or support. Whether that appreciation comes or not, Netizenet is off to an amazing start and I for one will definitely keep my eyes open for the next show and on Miao."
via:unthinkingly  aesthetic  newaesthetic  internet  web  china  online  accretion  beijing  netart  netizenet  byob  michelleproksell  lanlovepoem  yingmao  newmedia  benvalentine  tumblr  newvibe  gifs  memes  poetry  poems  sinaweibo  weibo  wechat  animation  screenshots  low-techaesthetic  changzhai  socialmedia  joiito  2014  webrococo  newhive 
december 2015 by robertogreco
Philip Larkin - The Mower
"we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time."
poetry  quotes  poems  kindness  philiplarkin  via:lukeneff 
december 2015 by robertogreco
The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver - Poem 133 | Poetry 180: A Poem a Day for American High Schools, Hosted by Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate, 2001-2003 (Poetry and Literature, Library of Congress)
"The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver"
poems  poetry  maryoliver  nature  life  living  prayer  productivity  change  attention 
november 2015 by robertogreco
D o l o r e s D o r a n t e s
"Dolores Dorantes es periodista, escritora, poeta y animal sagrado; mexicana, nacida en las montañas cafetaleras de Córdoba, Veracruz en 1973; criada en el parte norte del país en Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua. Zapoteca por parte de su abuela materna y negra por parte de su abuelo materno. Española por parte de su abuela paterna y mestiza por parte de su abuelo paterno. Sacerdote de la tradición budista Mahajrya, lo que significa que ninguna de sus identidades o razas, pigmentos, códigos genéticos la definen. Amante de la libertad. Es autora de Dolores Dorantes por Dolores Dorantes; una colección de cuatro libros escritos en Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, de los que Kenning Editions en coedición con Counterpath Press publicó dos, en 2008, traducidos al inglés por Jen Hofer. En 20015, Ugly Duckling Presse publicó Intervenir/intervene, libro escrito en colaboración con Rodrigo Flores Sánchez y traducido también por Jen Hofer.

Dorantes fue ganadora de la beca Jacques-Rousseau, de la Akademie Schloss Solitude en Alemania en 2014. Performancera, periodista y librera en su propia librería móvil: Librería Feminista, y directora de Cielo Portátil (por una educación libre). Aparte de tener seis libros de poesía y prosa publicados, sus artículos, poemas y textos se han publicado en LARB, Culture Strike, Harriet y Open Space (SFMOMA) entre otros. Su trabajo ha sido traducido a más de siete idiomas incluyendo el bengalí, sueco, francés, portugués, holandés y alemán. Dos de sus performances efímeros se han presentado en Machine Project de LA. Fundadora de la Compañía Frugal para las artes de la frontera norte, AC; editora y co-creadora de la Hoja Frugal, junto a Juan Manuel Portillo y Arturo Ramírez-Lara; editora y curadora de la revista binacional PLAN B. Coordinó por seis años la sede de Documentación y Estudios de Mujeres, AC en Ciudad Juárez y fundó el Proyecto Sur Los Angeles en Estados Unidos, donde vive desde 2011, con asilo político. Adora las fronteras y cree en una Latinoamérica Unida (como Simón Bolívar soñó). Trabaja en un libro autobiográfico-documental interminable titulado Estructura, en su performance improvisatorio “Prema”, co-dirige el documental “Global” junto a Cristal Castillo y escribe varios libros en colaboración con Anthony McCann, Ben Ehrenreich y Rodrigo Flores Sánchez."
doloresdorantes  poetry  poems  mexico  journalism 
october 2015 by robertogreco
Introducing Versioning Poems
[Wayback to original posting: https://web.archive.org/web/20170712063519/http://nicola.io:80/versioning-poems/2015 ]

"In London we have a fantasic group of people that discusses cutting edge ideas, the group is called the Palo Alto Supermarket test1. A recurrent topic has been Post-Internet art which we think it can be the next artistic expression trend.

["1 It abbreviates as PST, maybe it is worth looking for an interesting acronym, e.g. Policy, Society and Technology. Please ping me on twitter if you want to join in."]

In this post, I would like to introduce one way of writing Post-Internet poetry that mixes traditional poetry and coding poetry: Versioning Poems - I hope to inspire a new generation of poets, please update me @nicolagreco if you write some.

Versioning Poems

A versioning poem has two characteristics:

1. Versioning tool: The poem written in commit messages using a versioning tool

2. Commit diff: Each line has a commit diff that has code related to the message

In this way, one could clone a repository and just list the commit messages. The following is a poem of mine 9*19 Flowers poem.

Understanding requirement 1

As you can see each line shows up as a poem

$ git clone https://github.com/nicola/flowers-poem
$ git fetch origin poem
$ git checkout poem
$ git log --format="%C(yellow)%h%Creset %Cgreen%s%Creset%n%b"

ea814f4 POEM: 9*19 flowers
02d0dc0 Handcraft flowers from maths and lines,
aa14064 Choose the colors to make them shine,
ad4e12c Till the soil to plant the seeds.
700b967 .
7cea9e1 See me to make me glow
93c57f8 Touch me to give you more
e023bd0 Touch me you'll never stop
e146d2c Please touch me again.

Understanding requirement 2

The difference added by 93c57f8 Touch me to give you more relates to a piece of code that adds the function start_touching

93c57f8 Touch me to give you more
+ function start_touching(d, i) {
+ var flower = d3.select(this);
+ flower
+ .transition()
+ .delay(10)
+ .duration(1000)
+ .attr("d", handcraft_flower)
+ .style("stroke", "#ccc");
+ }

Conclusion

You can get very bizarre, the code does not need to work necessarely. In the case of my flowers, the final commit brings up a final working version of a visualization of the poem (See Figure 1).

I challenge your engineering skills and creativity to surprise me with a poem of yours.

- Nicola Greco,
Keep on rocking the decentralized web"

[code here: https://github.com/nicola/flowers-poem ]

[via: http://interconnected.org/home/2015/10/12/filtered ]

[See also: http://nicola.io/art/
http://nicola.io/flowers-poem/
http://old.virginialonso.com/2015/ ]
nicolagreco  art  poetry  poems  versioning  coding  codingpoetry  classideas  flowers  visualization 
october 2015 by robertogreco
What the Living Do - 94.04
"WHAT THE LIVING DO

by Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss--we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you."
death  poetry  poems  mariehow  living  life  everyday  yearning  1994 
october 2015 by robertogreco
Poetry For Robots
"What if we used poetry and metaphor as metadata?

Would a search for 'eyes' return images of stars?

Click an image and write a poem. Your poem will be stored in the database with the picture as 'poetic metadata.' Later, when we search the database, we'll see if the robot has learned how we see, describe, and feel the world."



"Patterns and connections
We understand the world through metaphor. Our minds seek and spin patterns and connections, likenesses and equations. Biologist and anthropologist Gregory Bateson observed that metaphor is “how the whole fabric of mental interconnections holds together. Metaphor is right at the bottom of being alive.” As above, so below.

The most effective and explicit specimens of metaphor are found in poetry. Weaving metaphors into poems is an age-old and far-flung human act: we see and search the world with a poetic mind.

Why write poetry for robots?
Why, then, do we search a simple on-line image bank with such literal terms? Because the robots haven’t been taught our poetry. They only know the technical EXIF metadata and whatever descriptive adjectives they’ve been begrudgingly fed by underpaid (or unpaid) interns. But what if we write poetry for the robots? What if we used poetry and metaphor as metadata? Would a search for “eyes” return images of stars?

Poetry for Robots is a digital humanities experiment instigated by this Imaginary Papers blog post and sponsored by Neologic Labs, Webvisions, and Arizona State University’s Center for Science and the Imagination. Starting today, we will populate a database with poetic metadata affiliated with specific images. At Webvisions Chicago 2015, we will perform search operations on the image bank and see what the robots have learned from our poetry and metaphorical connections, our human view of the world.

Next steps
Beyond this, we may extrapolate and investigate further. Will this reveal a “pattern of metaphors,” as posited by the great author and poet Jorge Luis Borges? Can an algorithm, informed by our poetic input, generate compelling works of its own? Let’s compose poetry for the robots and see."
poetry  bots  robots  poems  metaphor  metadata 
july 2015 by robertogreco
Orion Magazine - Fotos de la biografía | Facebook
"Great old poem criticizing those who took common lands for personal gain:

The law locks up the man or woman
Who steals the goose off the common
But leaves the greater villain loose
Who steals the common from the goose.

The law demands that we atone
When we take things we do not own
But leaves the lords and ladies fine
Who takes things that are yours and mine.

The poor and wretched don’t escape
If they conspire the law to break;
This must be so but they endure
Those who conspire to make the law.

The law locks up the man or woman
Who steals the goose from off the common
And geese will still a common lack
Till they go and steal it back.

"This 17th Century folk poem is one of the pithiest condemnations of the English enclosure movement—the process of fencing off common land and turning it into private property. In a few lines, the poem manages to criticize double standards, expose the artificial and controversial nature of property rights, and take a slap at the legitimacy of state power. And it does it all with humor, without jargon, and in rhyming couplets." —James Boyle, Duke Law School Professor via On the Commons [https://www.facebook.com/OntheCommons ]"
poems  poetry  via:anne  commonlands  enclosure  multispecies  property  privateproperty  commons  nature  propertyrights  statepower  jamesboyle  law  legal 
june 2015 by robertogreco
Why the Book I'm About to Publish Will Be Ignored — Partisan
"Given that English speakers share a country with such a vital and little understood literary market, and given how rarely these translations occur—and given that the poetry collections being rendered into English are some of the most outstanding and representative books from that territory—you would think their appearance would be regarded as a cause for celebration (or at least cause for copy). But beyond the staples of Émile Nelligan and, maybe, Saint-Denys Garneau, and outside of living poets like Nicole Brossard, Québécois poetry barely registers. And Quebec isn’t alone. There are Francophone poetry communities throughout the country—in Manitoba or New Brunswick—that exist in almost total isolation from English-Canadian reviewers, critics, and academics. I often joke that the easiest way to confound an English-Canadian poet is to tell them there are major Canadian poets who don’t write in English."



"One group gets it—Quebec’s English poets. Almost everything Canada knows about Québécois poetry is thanks to them. The McGill Movement is where it started. Led by F.R. Scott,, and active during the forties and fifties, this group was the first to demonstrate an interest in contemporary French-language verse. It was a period, according to Scott, when many “lively interchanges” were struck up among the French and English poets he invited to his home. (“I remember Louis Portugais,” Scott writes, “then editor of Hexagone publications, after reading T.S. Eliot’s translation of Saint-John Perse’s Anabase, looking up and saying to me, ‘It’s very bad’”). The McGill Movement’s importance, however, resides chiefly in its belief that translation wasn’t merely bridge-gapping tokenism but creative opportunity. Scott and his coterie sought authoritative and adventurous English equivalents—high-quality renditions that were poems in their own right."



"Anglo-Quebec poets are the only group that still seek out the invigorating surplus of these exchanges. Not surprisingly, they also appear to have harvested its considerable linguistic benefits—they write English, as Gail Scott has said of herself, “with the sound of French” in their ear. As a result, their best work not only carries a percentage of the genius of Québécois poetry, but something new: a Babelian sense of living between competing origins and tongues. For Eric Ormsby, this can lead to a phenomenon called a “shadow language.” Using the example of Basil Bunting’s familiarity with Latin or Geoffrey Hill’s knowledge of German, Ormsby argues that foreign idioms and phrases lurking below native speech can compel poets to “nuance and complicate the sound-patterns of their verse.” 

This shadow language enriches many of the English poems written in Montreal, poems marked by doubletalk and euphemism, polyphonic wordplay and impurities of diction. A. M. Klein was the first Anglo-Quebec poet to idiomatically emulsify his phrasings, to allow French to infiltrate and float inside his lines (“Mollified by the parle of French / Bilinguefact your air!”). But moments just as mesmerizing occur in poems by John Glassco, D.G. Jones, and Peter Van Toorn, as well as younger figures like Bruce Taylor, Asa Boxer, Oana Avasilichioaei, and Linda Besner.

A shadow language’s impact isn’t just linguisitic. Among Montreal poets, it can create the feeling of being set apart or cut adrift, of existing as an outsider. “I am nobody: / that is how I will enter you” is the way Michael Harris once addressed a room of imaginary readers. Or take Robyn Sarah: “I am the blip on the screen, / the cold spot, the dark area you see / with indefinite borders.” More exhilaratingly, it can contribute to a “several selves” state: life defined not only by the reality it inhabits, but also the potential—and sometimes fantastical—existences it did not fulfill. David Solway’s most notorious book, Saracen Island, features faux translations from a fictional Greek poet (he has since tried his hand at “Englishing” poems from Turkish and Domenican). And Asa Boxer’s long poem “Primer to the New World” reinvents Canada’s discovery as a Medieval travel narrative, packed with fabulous beasts and holy objects.

Anglo-Quebec poets are also the only group to successfully reconcile the century-old bicultural quarrel. The “two solitudes” have become what Solway calls the “two solicitudes.” What was once a sense of division is now a feeling of concern for the other’s well-being. Solway—who once declared Québécois poetry “the most powerful, the most interesting and the most vital poetic tradition in all of Canada”—has himself been an excellent conduit for that concern. He used to contribute a monthly translation of a French poem to the now-defunct Books in Canada (since gathered into a lovely anthology called Demilunes: Little Windows on Quebec), enjoys a fervent relationship with many francophone poets, and is the first English writer to win the Grand Prix du livre de Montréal.

It should be said such transactions aren’t exclusively between English and French. In her study Translating Montreal, Sherry Simon calls the city one of the world’s few “contact zones,” a place where languages mingle and intersect. This means poets can avail themselves of shadowy accents from a large palette of foreign vernaculars. Antonio D'Alfonso’s early collections sometimes mixed English, French, and Italian. Erin Mouré has creatively repurposed (or "transelated") Portuguese and Spanish poems into outrightly exotic dialects. Nonetheless, the shift of solitudes into solicitudes is the tale of an exploited double heritage, of poets embracing the acoustic advantage of living inside the French language and taking pleasure from its music. The self-centeredness of English dissolves in such a climate, forcing poets to acknowledge that larger soundscape.

Of course, that also means acknowledging the existence of singular talents like Nepveu. And that, in turn, means acknowledging a version of Canadian poetry found only in translation, in the sympathetic resonances between foreign words. Those of us committed to engaging with—and making available—literary worlds not our own can feel like that English radio station, discussed in Translating Montreal, that advertised delivering the “news to nous.” But “news to nous” isn’t always news that stays news. Fact is, it’s news to which Canada is now deaf."
poems  poetry  translation  french  english  canada  2015  language  languages  carminestarnino  quebec  spanish  español  portuguese  italian  mcgillmovement  ericormsby  amklein  johnglassco  dgjones  petervantoorn  brucetaylor  asaboxer  ooanaavasilichioaei  lindabesner  robynsarah  davidsolway  sherrysimon  erinmouré  pierrenepveu  gastonmiron  robertmelançon  pierremorency  michelgarneau  yvesboisvert  michaelhofmann  pashamalla  donaldwinkler  raymondbock  nellaarcan  hélènedorion  paulmuldoon  marcplourde  jacquesbrault  saint-denys-garneau 
june 2015 by robertogreco
Life in the Garrison | The American Conservative
"To think in this way — to think seriously in this way — is to commit oneself to slow and incremental change, to what W. H. Auden in one of his poems calls “local understanding.” It is also to acknowledge that the order and value you crave will not be handed to you by your environment; rather, you must build it ad hoc, improvising as you go with like-minded people, as you can find them."



"A genuinely conservative — i.e., conserving — counter-culture of any kind, including the Christian kind, will be similarly improvisatory, small-scale, local, fragile. It will always be aware that “to inhabit an ecology of attention that puts one squarely in the world” is a task to be re-engaged, with more or less success, every day. Over its (imaginary) gates it will carve a motto, one taken from a late Auden poem, “The Garrison”:

"Whoever rules, our duty to the City
is loyal opposition, never greening
for the big money, never neighing after
a public image.

Let us leave rebellions to the choleric
who enjoy them: to serve as a paradigm
now of what a plausible Future might be
is what we’re here for."
whauden  poems  poetry  futures  utopia  small  presence  attention  slow  scale  improvisation  local  conservatiism  christianity  alanjacobs  2015  engagement  everyday  canon 
june 2015 by robertogreco
A “No to” Poem — The Message — Medium
"This self-contradiction happens many times, presumably the result of the poem being written collectively. It’s also possible a given pair of such lines represents the mental state of an individual who holds two opposing views at once. In any case, many times the work asks you, the reader, to hold two opposing views, which is unusual in a manifesto (less unusual in a poem).

The poem is angry and it is exhausted. It is angry at many things, some of them related to sexual assault, some of them related to how people enact their activism. It is exhausted by the same things. The poem is 3,712 words of free verse, an average of 14 words per line. 243 of those lines are tweetable and 28 are too long to tweet."



"The manifesto is author-less; it was written collectively. Its authors are identified only by geography:



So it’s impossible to know how many people were involved. At least 11, and since there are 271 lines to the poem and each line seems to represent an individual thought, then 271 is probably the upper potential limit of the collective. So: I’d estimate somewhere between 11 and 271 people wrote the poem. They all identify as feminists but that doesn’t specify anything about gender or anything else. I made a little chart of the number of people involved by country:"



"I think this poem is fascinating today but I think it will also be fascinating 85 years from now, to one or more people, after many of the things to which it refers— the reading series, the people and places — cease to exist. It will define something specific about this moment in history. I doubt that 85 years will eradicate the cultural need for feminism, activism, or poetry. So this poem will help people understand how things have changed, or not, in the year 2100. They will be able to compare it to things that came before and to things that followed and know something about how things change in general."



"There are some things about this poem.

First, that it was written collectively and internationally via the Internet. Before this poem when you told me about collectively generated digital creative activist work my first thoughts were of 4Chan and Gamergate — of memes, not poems. So this poem changed that for me, it broadened the scope of what anonymous collectives can do online.

The idea of unidentified individuals collaborating and creating things has been understood by many people as a dangerous, bad thing connected to harassment. But this poem is the product of people working collaboratively and anonymously to create art that they hope will have a positive social impact. It is also a public policy statement, from a group without a name (even Anonymous has a name). Maybe this “No Collective” has already ceased to exist."

********

I don’t know how to read this thing. I mean, I could read it from beginning to end. But I burned out on that. Instead I’ve been coming back to it over a couple of weeks, digging out the PDF, and thinking it through.

It’s pretty much without imagery and metaphor. It’s incantatory. It acknowledges a diversity of opinion on some things (Melville House) and refuses a diversity of opinion on others (the reality of sexual assault).

The fact that it was written collectively makes it unclear to me, at any point of the poem, whether I am reading something that was written by an individual and then glued together, or if each line was collaboratively edited. How was it edited by the Chicago Review? I wish I knew which tools were used to compose it, because that matters. Google docs? An email list with a single editor? Facebook chat? How could you find out? Who could you ask? The things that are stable (“No to rape”) are very stable; other things are completely unstable. This poem raises a million questions about what it means to read things and how the Internet is changing writing. There are many poetic manifestos in the world and I’m sure some of them were anonymously written but the thing I keep thinking about is how there are now a set of technologies — in the broadest sense, not just the Internet but technologies of self-organizing and collaboratively working — that enable the rapid creation of new things in reaction to events."



"I’ve half-followed the Alt-Lit scene for a while and have probably spent 20 years reading about “digital poetics,” and this is the very first time I went, well, there you go.

It seems that a lot of worlds are starting to collide. It also feels that anonymous international collectives of varying sizes and shapes, with radically different ideologies, will claim their voice in culture moving forward, ranging from 4Chan and Gamergate, which are very masculine entities, to this no collective, which is avowedly, fundamentally feminist. I expect people sharing other kinds of belief systems will start operating and creating as collectives, too."
feminism  language  paulford  poetry  rape  2015  authorship  googledocs  cocreation  collaboration  writing  howwerite  activism  collectivism  poems 
may 2015 by robertogreco
A Map to the Next World by Joy Harjo : The Poetry Foundation
"In the last days of the fourth world I wished to make a map for
those who would climb through the hole in the sky.

My only tools were the desires of humans as they emerged
from the killing fields, from the bedrooms and the kitchens.

For the soul is a wanderer with many hands and feet.

The map must be of sand and can’t be read by ordinary light. It
must carry fire to the next tribal town, for renewal of spirit.

In the legend are instructions on the language of the land, how it
was we forgot to acknowledge the gift, as if we were not in it or of it.

Take note of the proliferation of supermarkets and malls, the
altars of money. They best describe the detour from grace.

Keep track of the errors of our forgetfulness; the fog steals our
children while we sleep.

Flowers of rage spring up in the depression. Monsters are born
there of nuclear anger.

Trees of ashes wave good-bye to good-bye and the map appears to
disappear.

We no longer know the names of the birds here, how to speak to
them by their personal names.

Once we knew everything in this lush promise.

What I am telling you is real and is printed in a warning on the
map. Our forgetfulness stalks us, walks the earth behind us, leav-
ing a trail of paper diapers, needles, and wasted blood.

An imperfect map will have to do, little one.

The place of entry is the sea of your mother’s blood, your father’s
small death as he longs to know himself in another.

There is no exit.

The map can be interpreted through the wall of the intestine—a
spiral on the road of knowledge.

You will travel through the membrane of death, smell cooking
from the encampment where our relatives make a feast of fresh
deer meat and corn soup, in the Milky Way.

They have never left us; we abandoned them for science.

And when you take your next breath as we enter the fifth world
there will be no X, no guidebook with words you can carry.

You will have to navigate by your mother’s voice, renew the song
she is singing.

Fresh courage glimmers from planets.

And lights the map printed with the blood of history, a map you
will have to know by your intention, by the language of suns.

When you emerge note the tracks of the monster slayers where they
entered the cities of artificial light and killed what was killing us.

You will see red cliffs. They are the heart, contain the ladder.

A white deer will greet you when the last human climbs from the
destruction.

Remember the hole of shame marking the act of abandoning our
tribal grounds.

We were never perfect.

Yet, the journey we make together is perfect on this earth who was
once a star and made the same mistakes as humans.

We might make them again, she said.

Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.

You must make your own map."
via:anne  poems  poetry  joyharlo  maps  mapping  humans  wandering  wanderers  language  nature  multispecies  names  naming  communication  forgetting  forgetfulness  human-animalrelations  human-animalrelationships  posthumanism 
may 2015 by robertogreco
Eagle Poem by Joy Harjo : The Poetry Foundation
"To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear;
Can’t know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty."
via:anne  poems  poetry  hoyharjo  kindness  nature  multispecies  beauty  human-animalrelations  human-animalrelationships  posthumanism 
may 2015 by robertogreco
'Growl' by Filip Noterdaeme - Berfrois
"I am seeing the worst minds of my generation redeemed by
money, eager ambitious loaded,
working their way up the career path at Yale
looking for a fast shortcut,
square-headed bankers vying for the urgent timely
connection to the star-studded club in the machin-
ery of might,
who orderly and pampered and manicured and demanding speak
ill texting in the overachieving glow of
skyscraper digs rising above the fray of downtown
contemplating golf,
who flash their dicks in selfies in the shower and
stalk meat-packing interns staggering on cobble-
stones polished,
who fall up the ladder with hungry cold eyes
guzzling Red Bull and neon-light travesty
among the colonels of economics,
who are nominated Least Likely to Succeed &
make out like a bandit on the heels of Steve
Jobs,"

[continues]
filipnoterdaeme  andewsolomon  allenginsberg  poems  poetry  growl  howl  2014 
may 2015 by robertogreco
Fred Moten - Poetry Society of America
"Fred Moten

I'm influenced by the great liars of the world and I love mispronunciation. Anyone who can't help but deviate can pretty much tell me anything. Childish forms of hesitancy help me get in the mood. Like when they know the answer before they ask for it and the anticipation makes them answer their own questions against their will and their resistance to themselves offers a little sound, a little buzz with a laugh on the end of it, for the celebration. Laura helps me get things going when I forget to get all this. She studies the secret life of plants and arranges harmony in the asylum. Bill teaches me how to breathe and what it means to really live somewhere. Between them and Ms. Bush's theory of flavor, the way she handled a certain tendency to squabble by aggravating it, I'm feeling the bottom for imaginary poems, studying the edge of sleepy demands and timing that unashamed gathering for screaming. Come to find out, in the moving school, that Maceo was inconsolable while they were just generally going for their thing; but getting caught up in the analytic pause of Cincinnati goes all the way back to Columbus Square, that thick, perfect soup one night and those little wind-up toys. Denby, Rev. Dunn and the D Street repetition, Val cutting up stories like Family Man, was where I started learning how to listen. Now I'm learning how to listen again. The Corbetts, the Bushes and the history of the welcome table brushed up against that whole relation between cuteness and terror that keeps coming up in the little animal songs that Pete Seeger recorded. Frog went a courtin and it ended up wrong, as dinner and the refusal of dinner that you have to slip away to laugh at and record, track laid over that fatigue drone when everything is everything, which I'd been praying for and running from. I'm touching your ear. Is it ok to touch your ear? I'm touching it. I'm climbing up you. I can't tell you how much I love that. I can't get over how I got over.


* * *

ROCK THE PARTY, FUCK THE SMACKDOWN,

under Bill Brown's blue chicago there's|
unrest in response to continued scolding.

thing object. matter ain't the same
as one another. things don't represent
they must be broke. they cannot pay attention
to objects like objects so they stay mad
all the goddamn time, broken glasses
everywhere. but I sound better since you
cut my throat. the checkerboard is also a
chess board. it's also a cutting board and a
sound board. it's also a winding sheet and a
sound booth.

now you're bored with all these healthy choices
and you don't want to sound as clean as this.
shit smoothed out on me by accident too.
how did I get here? I lost my ideological
mama and her things. her thing's in storage
in north las vegas but no matter, ain't no thing,

'cause when the morning breaks I'ma get my sound back
and all my native weather will be mine."
fredmoten  poetry  poems  influence  mispronunciation  liars  deviation  hesitancy  anticipation 
may 2015 by robertogreco
Fred Moten Talk: "Blackness and Poetry" - YouTube
[30:47] “We've had a really hard time learning how to be on the earth. We're not doing such a good job. Or maybe a more precise way to put it would be we've had a hard time living in the earth or with the earth or living *as* the earth."
fredmoten  via:javierarbona  2015  poetry  blackness  race  sovereignty  democratization  democracy  demos  colonialism  colonization  settlers  phenomenology  subjectivity  objects  ownership  possession  possessiveness  poems  edouardglissant  extralegality  illegality  place  being  waysofbeing 
may 2015 by robertogreco
The Hack Scribbler
"I wrote this collection of poetry on my smartphone. It fed my judgmental, five second attention span for almost a year. Now as I look back, the body of work is very much a product of its environment. The poems were inspired by run of the mill, everyday situations in which I sampled my over stimulated life, the lives of my friends and the conversations we all shared. Everyone and everything had eventually become my muse. I took notes down on my phone throughout each day and from there I pieced them all together—re-interpreting them as I went a long... like a collage. I write to you now in formal English but please be aware that the following poetry will deviate from standard spelling and punctuation as the body of work is experimental in nature. You will notice a lack of formatting in each of the poems as the medium—my phone—sometimes had a mind of its own (auto-complete and spell-check). The text would wrap to the next line by default, so I didn’t force any line breaks or interruptions. I simply integrated that workflow into the poems and just went with it. Going into this project I was interested in how we use language in a contemporary setting— how we reconfigure language for our needs and convenience—so be prepared for my personal style to collide with Internet vernacular and the instant messaging inspired broken trains of thought. The style of the poems will evolve—ebb and flow—in length, frequency and intensity as the book unravels so I hope you enjoy the ride."
poetry  poems  books  writing  danieltoumine  2014  howwewrite  smarthphone  mobile  phones 
march 2015 by robertogreco
« earlier      
per page:    204080120160

Copy this bookmark:





to read